THE  LIBRARY 

OF 
THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 
LOS  ANGELES 


I 


SKETCHES 


MARRIED    LIFE 


BY  MRS.  FOLLEN, 

AUTHOR  OF  "  SELECTIONS  FROM  FENELON,"  "  THE 

SKEPTIC,"  "WELL-SPENT  HOUR,"  &c. 


Perfect  esteem,  enlivened  by  desire 

Ineffuble,  and  sympathy  of  soul ; 

Thought  meeting  thought,  and  will  preventing  will, 

With  boundless  confidence:   for  nought  but  love 

Can  answer  love,  and  render  bliss  secure. 


BOSTON: 

HILLIARD,    GRAY    AND    CO. 
1838. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1838. 

by  MILLIARD,  GRAY,  &  Co. 
in  tbeClerk'i  office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  District  of  Massachusetts. 


PRINTED  BT  WILLIAM  A.  HALL  &  Co. 


DEDICATED 

T  O 

CHARLES     POLLEN, 


BY    HIS    WIFE. 


16:1715? 


I 


SKETCHES   OF  MARRIED  LIFE. 


• 


CHAPTER  I. 


I 

"  I  make  a  broken  delivery  of  the  business." 

WINTER'S  TALE. 


"  WALK  in  !  La !  was  it  only  you,  Jerry, 
that  was  knocking  so  loud  ?  "  said  Ruth  to  a 
trim,  brisk  little  man,  as  he  entered  the  well- 
furnished  kitchen  in  which  she  was  employ 
ed  at  her  customary  work.  "  And  so,  Jerry, 
you  have  found  out,  at  your  house,  that  riches 
take  to  themselves  wings,  and  fly  away ;  and 
that  a  light  purse  is  a  heavy  curse." 

"And  what  if  we  have,  Ruth?  nobody 
knows  whose  turn  may  come  next;  and  I 
should  think  you  might  ask  a-body  to  sit 
down,  before  you  begin  to  twit  him  of  his 
misfortunes,  or,  what  is  worse,  of  his  friends'  j 
>for  I  call  Mr.  Selmar  my  friend,  especially 
now  he  is  poor." 

1 


2  SKETCHES    OF 

"  Well,  well ;  do  sit  down,  Jerry,  I  know  it 
is  hard  for  empty  bags  to  stand  upright." 

Jerry  did  not  much  like  the  application  of 
the  proverb  to  himself,  or  his  master's  purse  ; 
but  he  loved  his  ease,  and  could  not  resist  the 
offer  of  a  chair  from  Ruth,  who  had  a  power 
over  him,  which  his  philosophy  had  never 
enabled  him  to  explain.  So  he  seated  him 
self,  as  he  said,  with  a  look  of  offended  pride, 
"  I  did  think,  Ruth,  that  you  were  a  more 
feeling  person,  and  had  better  manners ;  but 
I  have  not  eat  a  peck  of  salt  yet  with  you." 

"  A  peck  of  nonsense,  Jerry  ;  I  do'nt  mean 
any  harm,  you  know  ;  I  am  sorry  enough  for 
Mr.  Selmar,  but  one  must  either  laugh  or 
cry  at  such  things,  and  my  notion  is.  it  is 
best  to  laugh.  I  can  tell  you  that  I  respect 
Mr.  Selmar  as  much  as  I  ever  did,  and  more 
too,  if  he  has  behaved  honorably." 

"  If  he  has  behaved  honorably  !  "  repeated 
Jerry  indignantly  ;  "  a  likely  story,  that  Mr. 
Selmar  could  behave  otherwise  than  honor 
ably.  Why  he  is  going  to  sell  everything 
he  has ;  give  up  his  elegant  lodgings,  sell  his 
gig,  and  his  horses,  even  Robinette,  his  beau 
tiful  saddle-horse  ;  and,  more  than  all,  he 
means  to  wait  upon  himself;  for  he  told 
me  this  morning  I  must  look  out  for  a  place, 


MARRIED    LIFE.  3 

because  he  could  not  afford  to  keep  me.  But, 
come !  I  'm  in  a  great  hurry ;  do  take  this 
note  to  Miss  Amy  ;  I  suppose  there  is  no  an 
swer  to  it,  and  I  can 't  stay,  either." 

"  Poh  !  Jerry,  you  always  say  that.  I  can 
tell  you  that  he  that's  in  a  hurry,  fishes  in  an 
empty  pond.  Here,  John,"  she  said  to  the 
footman,  "carry  up  this  billet  to  Miss  Amy, 
and  tell  her  that  Jerry  brought  it,  and  that  he 
is  in  no  hurry  at  all,  and  will  wait  just  as 
long  as  she  pleases  for  an  answer." 

"  Well,  now,  if  that  is  n't  funny,"  drawled 
out  Jerry,  half  vexed  and  half  amused.  "  I 
never  in  all  my  life  saw  such  a  queer  wo 
man." 

"  Never  mind,  Jerry ;  crooked  sticks  make 
even  fires.  But  come,  tell  me  all  about  Mr. 
Selmar  ;  has  he  lost  all  ?  " 

"  All !  "  groaned  out  Jerry. 

"  Do  folks  say  any  thing  against  him  ?  " 

"  Not  a  word  ;  everybody  knows  that  it  was 
brought  on  by  the  failure  of  others  who  owed 
him  money,  and  he  has  given  up  all  he  has, 
and  he  means  to  deny  himself  everything. 
Why  I  tell  you,  Ruth,  he  means  even  to  part 
with  me." 

"  May-be  that 's  the  gain  of  a  loss,  Jerry  ; 
but  that 's  acting  like  a  man  ;  now  I  respect 


4  SKETCHES    OF 

him,  and  if  I  have  a  chance  I  shall  befriend 
him,  though  it 's  no  more  than  he  ought  to 
do." 

"  But  only  think,  Ruth,  what  a  hard  case 
it  is  for  him,  an  only  child,  and  his  father 
died  when  he  was  only  three  years  old,  and 
left  him  such  a  heap  of  money ;  and  then  he 
was  all  the  world  to  his  mother :  he  has 
never  known  what  hardship  is." 

"Time  he  did,"  said  Ruth;  "I  suppose 
he  has  been  a  sort  of  fatted  calf." 

"  No  such  thing ;  his  mother  was  a  pious 
woman ;  she  taught  him  to  read  his  Bible, 
and  she  kept  him  out  of  bad  company,  and 
she  made  all  his  masters  come  to  him  for  fear 
he  should  get  any  harm  at  school." 

"  The  more 's  the  pity.  I  dare  say  he 
thinks  he  is  not  made  of  the  same  flesh  and 
blood  as  the  rest  of  the  world." 

"  Oh,  but  I  tell  you,  Ruth,  his  mother  used 
to  tell  him  he  was,  and  to  teach  him  not  to 
think  too  much  of  himself;  I  have  heard  her 
myself,  when  I  was  a  boy,  and  used  to  go 
there  to  do  chores." 

"  An  ounce  of  practice  is  worth  a  pound 
of  preaching,  Jerry — depend  upon  it.  But, 
did  n't  you  say  that  Mr.  Selmar's  saddle-horse 
was  for  sale  ?  " 


MARRIED    LIFE.  5 

"  Yes  I  did  ;  and  what 's  that  to  you.  Ruth  ? 
but  may-be  Miss  Amy  wants  him  ?" 

"  Every  may-be  has  a  may-not-be,  Jerry  ; 
but  tell  me,  is  he  kind  and  well  broke  ?  " 

"  I  tell  no  lies,  Ruth,  not  even  when  I  sell 
a  horse.  Robinette  is  as  steady  as  a  parson, 
and  he 's  a  lump  of  good  nature.  But  now 
do  tell  me  if  you  do  n't  want  him  for  Miss 
Amy  ? " 

"  We  two  can  keep  a  secret  when  one  is 
away  ;  all  I  tell  you  is,  I  engage  the  refusal 
of  the  horse." 

To  this  Jerry  agreed.  John  returned  to 
say  there  was  no  answer  to  the  note,  and 
Jerry  again  remembered  that  he  was  in  a 
great  hurry,  and  departed,  saying,  "  Well,  I 
must  be  back  in  less  than  no  time." 

"  How  shall  I  manage  the  business  ?  "  said 
Ruth  to  herself ;  "  when  there's  a  will  there's 
always  a  way."  She  could  not  talk  even  to 
herself  without  a  proverb.  "  Let  me  see  ; 
Miss  Amy  is  in  the  breakfast-room ;  I  have 
not  dusted  the  pictures  yet."  In  another 
minute  Ruth  was  apparently  very  busily  em 
ployed  dusting  the  pictures.  As  she  stood 
behind  the  sofa,  where  Amy  Weston  was 
sitting  with  a  book  in  her  hand,  she  noticed 
that  she  held  it  upside  down. 


D  SKETCHES    OF 

"  I  calculate,"  said  Ruth  to  herself,  "  that 
she  will  not  be  much  the  wiser  for  what  she 
reads  this  morning.  She 's  only  making 
believe  read :  well,  the  honestest  folks  are 
not  always  to  be  trusted.  —  Do  you  expect  a 
great  many  folks  this  evening,  Miss  Amy  ?  " 

"No,  Ruth,  scarcely  any  body." 

"  Then  I  suppose  John  can  tend  alone  ?  " 

"4Certainly,  I  want  no  further  preparations 
made  than  those  I  have  mentioned." 

"  Just  as  I  thought,"  said  Ruth  to  herself; 
"  straws  show  which  way  the  wind  blows. 
She  does  not  value  the  party  now  the  worth 
of  a  pin,  and  before  she  got  that  note  she 
seemed  to  think  of  nothing  else.  I  'm  sorry 
for  her ;  there 's  no  herb  will  cure  love." 
.  Ruth  sighed  audibly,  as  if  she  had  reference 
to  her  own  experience.  "  I  will,"  thought 
she,  "  try  speaking  to  her  about  Robinette." 

Amy  was  fully  aware  of  Ruth's  loquacity, 
and  had  a  sort  of  intuitive  knowledge  that 
she  was  about  exercising  it  upon  her  at  this 
time,  when  she  was  not  disposed  to  indulge 
her.  She  rose  from  her  seat  with  the  inten 
tion  of  retiring  to  her  own  room  ;  but  Ruth 
was  not  so  easily  baffled  in  her  plans. 

"  Did  n't  I  hear  you  say,  Miss  Amy,  that 
you  wanted  a  saddle-horse  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  did  say  so,  Ruth." 


MARRIED    LIFE.  7 

"  Well,  ma'am,  I  Ve  had  one  offered  to  me 
to-day,  that  I  guess  will  suit  you  exactly." 

"  It  seems  odd  for  you  and  me  to  be  in 
treaty  for  a  horse,  Ruth  ;  I  fear  we  should 
make  but  poor  jockeys ;  but  who  has  offered 
you  one  ?  " 

"  Why  you  know,  ma'am,  that  poor  Mr. 
Selmar  has  lost  all  his  money,  and  he  's  going 
to  sell  off  every  thing  he  owns,  even  Robin- 
ette,  his  beautiful  saddle-horse." 

"  Well,  Ruth,  and  what  of  that  ? " 

"  Why  you  see,  Miss  Amy,  that  Jerry  says 
that  Robinette  is  as  good  as  he  is  handsome, 
which  is  n't  always  the  case  ;  and  you  see, 
I  Ve  engaged  the  refusal  of  him,  for  I  thought 
he  would  be  just  the  thing  for  you." 

"  Surely,  Ruth,  you  have  not  done  such  a 
thing,  and  without  any  direction  from  rne 
too." 

"  No  harm  done,  Miss  Amy ;  no  one 
knows  who  I  engaged  him  for  ;  but  I  thought 
you  would  like  Mr.  Edward's  horse  better 
than  any  other." 

"  But  I  do  not  wish,  Ruth,  to  bargain  for 
Mr.  Selmar's  horse ;  it  was  very  improper  in 
you,  Ruth ;  you  must  go  directly  and  tell 
Jerry  that  you  did  this  without  my  knowl 
edge,  and  that  I  do  not  want  Robinette. 


8  SKETCHES    OF 

How  could  you  do  such  a  thing?"  Amy 
left  the  room  as  she  said  this. 

"  Well,  if  that  is  n't  ridiculous !  "  said  Ruth 
as  soon  as  she  was  alone.  "  I  reckon  she  's 
put  out  with  Mr.  Edward  for  not  coming  this 
evening,  and  that  is  making  her  so  set  against 
his  horse,  and  that 's  ridiculous  in  her  ;  and  I 
suppose  he  's  mad  because  he  failed,  and  so 
he  spites  himself  by  staying  at  home,  and 
that 's  ridiculous  in  him  ;  and  here  am  I 
meddling  with  what 's  none  of  my  business, 
and  that 's  more  ridiculous  than  all ;  and 
what 's  the  worst  of  the  whole,  Jerry  will  get 
the  laugh  at  me,  if  he  finds  it  out.  True 
enough,  one  fool  makes  many.  He  made 
such  a  palaver  too  about  the  horse ;  I  '11  be 
bound  he  's  not  such  a  terrible  good  horse, 
after  all.  I  mean  to  tell  him  as  much  when 
I  see  him.  I  never  saw  Miss  Amy  so  put 
out  before.  Somehow  or  other  it  makes  one 
feel  more  ugly  to  see  such  a  pretty  spoken 
person  as  Miss  Amy  out  of  sorts,  than  it  does 
one  of  your  real  crabbed  folks.  The  sweetest 
wine  makes  the  sharpest  vinegar,  as  Aunt 
Polly  used  to  say.  Well,  I  must  go  to  Mr. 
Selmar's,  and  tell  Jerry  I  don't  want  his 
horse — good,  bad,  or  indifferent. " 

Ruth  was  soon  at  Mr.  Selmar's  door. 


MARRIED    LIFE.  9 

"  Well  Ruth  who  'd  a  thought  of  seeing 
you  again  so  soon  !  "  exclaimed  Jerry,  as  he 
opened  it  to  her. 

"  Why  you  see,  Jerry,  second  thoughts  are 
best  •  and  I  have  come  to  the  conclusion  that 
I  wo'n't  have  any  thing  to  do  with  your 
horse :  I  guess  there  are  enough  others  as 
good  as  he  any  day." 

"  So,  Miss  Amy  wo'n't  take  him,  "  replied 
Jerry  ;  "  I  can  tell  her  that  she  '11  not  get 
many  such  horses  as  Robinette  for  love  or' 
money." 

"  Why  what  had  Miss  Amy  to  do  with  it  ? 
I  tell  you,  Jerry,  that  it  is  I,  do  n't  want  the 
horse.  I  went  all  on  my  own  hook ;  but  as 
for  your  thinking  Robinette  is  such  a  wonder, 
you  know,  Jerry,  that  you  always  think  your 
crows  are  white." 

"  But  I  can  tell  you,  Ruth,  that  I  do  n't  half 
like  being  served  so  by  you ;  you  make  me 
look  very  cheap  to  Mr.  Selmar.  I  have  just 
told  him  that  I  'd  e'en  a'most  sold  Robinette." 

"  E'en  a'most  and  very  nigh,  save  many  a 
lie,  Jerry.  I  do  n't  want  the  horse,  and  that 's 
the  long  and  the  short  on't.  Mr.  Selmar  is 
not  at  home,  is  he  ?  " 

"  Yes  he  is,"  said  Mr.  Selmar,  who  hap 
pened  just  then  to  be  passing  through  the 


10  SKETCHES    OF 

hall,  and  recognized  her  voice.  Ruth  brush 
ed  by  Jerry,  and  greeted  him  with  a  most 
vehement  shake  of  the  hand. 

"  How  are  you,  Ruth  ?  and  how  is  Miss 
Amy  ?  "  he  said,  as  he  returned  it  with  equal 
cordiality. 

"  None  the  better  for  you,  Mr.  Edward ; 
why  have  you  not  been  to  see  for  yourself 
how  she  is  ?  " 

"  You  must  have  heard,  Ruth,  of  my  mis 
fortunes  ;  I  have  been  too  busy  to  visit." 

"  I  should  think  you  might  have  found  a 
few  minutes  for  old  friends." 

"  You  know,  Ruth,  that  there  is  no  place 
where  I  so  well  love  to  be  as  at  your  house  ; 
but  I  have  not  been  good  company  for  any 
body." 

"  Speak  well,  but  do  better.  It 's  not  doing 
as  you  would  be  done  by,  to  stay  away  from 
old  friends  when  you  are  in  trouble.  Stars 
shine  in  the  night,  Mr.  Edward." 

"  Very  true,  Ruth ;  but  tell  me  something 
of  Miss  Amy, — is  she  well  ?  " 

"  Why,  well  enough,  only  rather  dumpish 
for  her.  But  did  you  not  send  a  refusal  to 
her  party  ?  I  should  n't  wonder  if  she  was 
affronted  ;  for  when  I  said  something  to  her 
about  buying  your  horse  which  Jerry  recom- 


MARRIED    LIFE.  11 

mended,  why  she  looked  as  if  I  'd  advised 
her  to  buy  a  hornet's  nest.  And  I  know 
she  'd  be  angry  with  me  if  she  knew  I  had 
told  you  of  this  ;  but,  somehow  or  other,  I 
could  not  help  it  now,  Mr.  Edward." 

"  Thank  you !  thank  yon,  Ruth  !  now  is 
the  time  to  find  out  one's  true  friends." 

"  Ruth  is  right,"  said  Edward  to  himself, 
after  she  left  him.  "  It  is  not  doing  as  I 
would  be  done  by.  I  have  not  acted  with 
that  simple-hearted  trust  which  such  a  noble- 
minded  being  as  Amy  ought  to  inspire. 
Shall  I  suspect  her  of  what  I  should  despise 
myself  for  ?  I  have  not  lost  anything  in  my 
own  eyes,  why  should  I  in  hers  ?  —  But  am 
I  certain  that  she  loved  me  ?  We  have  ex 
changed  no  vows,  we  have  never  uttered  the 
word ;  but  have  we  not  understood  each 
other  ?  When  together  we  drank  in  the  sub 
lime  glories  of  Niagara,  and  felt  that  its  ever 
lasting  flow  was  but  a  faint  image  of  our  own 
souls,  that  could  be  satisfied  only  with  the  In 
finite  ;  then  did  we  not  know  that  we  loved 
each  other  ?  When  our  hearts  have  glowed 
with  rapture  at  the  thought  of  relieving  the 
oppressed,  and  with  indignation  against  tyran 
ny  ;  then  did  not  our  souls  grow  into  each 
other's  likeness  ?  And  is  not  this  love  ?  holy 


12  SKETCHES    OF    MARRIED    LIFE. 

love !  and  ought  it  not  to  cast  out  fear  ? 
What  has  kept  me  from  her  at  this  time  ? 
pitiful  pride,  low-born  fear.  I  will  go  to  her  : 
I  must  see  Amy  ;  but  I  must  not  ask  her  to 
marry  a  beggar.  Her  father !  how  I  dread 
to  see  him!  I  am  nothing  now  in  his 
eyes :  I  could  despise  him,  if  he  were  not  her 
father." 


CHAPTER  II. 


"  My  affections 

Are  then  most  humble ;  I  have  no  ambition 
To  see  a  goodlier  man."  TEMPEST, 


THE  next  morning  Edward  called  at  Mr. 
Western's.  He  found  Amy  at  home,  and 
alone. 

"  Edward !  Mr.  Selmar !  I  am  very  glad 
to  see  you ;  why  have  you  staid  away  so 
long?" 

"  Surely,  Amy,  you  know  what  has  occu 
pied  me  ;  I  have  now  to  learn  the  cold  virtues 
of  prudence,  and  self-denial ;  and  my  first 
lesson,  perhaps,  ought  to  be  to  forego  the 
pleasure  of  your  society." 

Edward  looked  embarrassed,  agitated,  and 
unhappy,  as  he  said  this. 

"  Would  you,"  replied  Amy,  "  resign  your 
friends  because  you  have  lost  your  money  ?  " 

"  A  beggar  must  not  expect  to  have  friends : 
I  have  been  a  spoiled  child:  they  tell  me 
that  I  have  now  to  learn  what  it  is  to  be  a 


14  SKETCHES    OF 

poor  man ;  but  I  did  not  intend  to  speak  of 
myself,  or  my  affairs  to  you." 

"  These  sentiments  are  unworthy  of  you, 
Edward,  if  money  has  had  anything  to  do 
with  our  regard  for  each  other,  it  is  well  it 
should  part  us  ;  otherwise,  why  this  appre 
hension  now  ?  I  thought  we  were  friends, 
Edward." 

Amy's  color  rose  as  she  said  this  :  she  was 
aware  that  she  had  gone  farther  than  the 
conventional  creed  of  the  world  might  au 
thorize  ;  she  had  spoken  simply  from  her 
heart.  Edward  seized  her  hand  ;  it  was  in 
vain  for  him  to  attempt  to  hide  any  longer 
all  that  was  in  his  heart.  He  confessed  all 
his  hopes,  all  his  fears,  so  long  cherished; 
his  intended  self-denial  was  suddenly  over 
come. 

From  that  moment,  what  were  riches  to 
her,  or  poverty  to  him  ?  To  those  who  have 
never  truly  loved,  who  have  never  had  this 
full  mysterious  harmony  of  souls  awakened 
within  them,  this  question  will  excite  a 
smile  ;  but,  thanks  be  to  the  great  Source  of 
all  true  love,  there  are  many,  very  many  of 
the  rich  as  well  as  the  poor,  whose  hearts 
will  understand  and  respond  to  it. 

Amy  and    Edward  knew   that  they  had 


MARRIED    LIFE.  15 

now  one  severe  trial  to  encounter,  and  they 
wisely  resolved  to  meet  it  at  once.  They 
knew  that  Mr.  Weston  would  be  greatly  dis 
pleased  at  his  daughter's  engaging  herself  to 
a  man  who  had  no  property. 

"  What  shall  I  say  to  your  father  ?  "  asked 
Edward. 

"  Tell  him  the  whole  truth,"  replied  Amy. 
"  Yes  ;  but  he  will  be  deeply  offended." 
"  Very  like ;  but    we   must  bear  that   pa 
tiently,    and  let   him  see  that  in  all  that  is 
right  we  will  conform  to  his  wishes." 

"  I  will  see  him  at  once,"  said  Edward, 
"  and  tell  him  that,  although  I  have  sought 
your  affection,  I  do  not  ask  for  your  hand  till 
I  have  earned  the  means  of  supporting  you. 
He  must  not  suspect  me  of  the  baseness  of 
wishing  to  depend  upon  him  for  my  subsist 
ence.  Cannot  I  see  him  now  ?  " 

"  He  is  not  at  home,"  replied  Amy  ;  "  but 
you  can  see  him  this  evening  ; "  and  they 
parted  till  then. 

Strange  as  it  may  seem,  it  was  a  relief  to 
them  both  to  be  separated  for  a  while.  The 
first  moment  of  perfect  certainty  that  we  are 
beloved  by  the  object  of  our  deepest  affections, 
falls  on  our  souls  with  an  oppressive  power. 
The  religious  mind  at  such  a  time  longs  to  be 


16  SKETCHES    OF 

alone  with  the  Father  of  spirits.  A  true  and 
pure  love  cannot  be  spoken  in  all  its  fulness. 
It  is  by  faith  in  that  which  is  invisible  and 
unexpressed ;  it  is  through  our  own  deep 
consciousness,  that  we  know  how  we  are 
loved  by  another.  The  heart  involuntarily 
rises  to  that  Being  who  can  penetrate  the 
depths  of  its  love,  and  it  is  in  his  presence 
alone  at  such  moments  that  it  seems  to 
breathe  freely  and  calmly.  So  felt  Amy  and 
Edward  when  they  parted  this  morning. 

Amy's  father  was,  and  he  prided  himself 
upon  being  a  man  of  the  world.  He  also 
prided  himself  upon  being  what  is  called  a 
moral  man ;  and  he  was  one,  if  morality  be 
that  cold  system  of  expediency  which  is 
sometimes  all  that  is  meant  by  the  words,  "  a 
good  moral  man."  He  thought  that  religion 
was  a  very  good  thing  to  keep  the  people  in 
order  ;  without  this  safeguard,  the  poor,  and 
all  those  unfortunate  beings  who  have  none 
of  the  good  things  of  this  life,  would  be 
dangerous  to  those  who  have  an  abundance ; 
and  that  they  must  be  bribed  into  submission 
by  the  promise  of  a  large  reversion  in  the  life 
to  come.  He  believed  in  a  just  Providence, 
because  he  was  himself  provided  for.  The 
opinion  of  what  he  called  the  respectable 


. 

MARRIED    LIFE.  17 

part  of  the  community,  by  which  he  always 
meant  the  rich  and  powerful,  was  the  standard 
by  which  he  graduated  .fall  his  views.  He 
piqued  himself  upon  his  skill  in  avoiding  to 
commit  himself  upon  any  important  or  ques 
tionable  subject  till  the  opinion  of  the  wise 
in  their  generation  had  settled  it.  If  any 
thing  ever  betrayed  him  into  a  violation  of 
this  strict  mental  neutrality,  and  an  argu 
ment  was  brought  up  against  him,  he  would 
directly  quote  some  high  authority  in  defence 
of  the  opinion  he  had  ventured  to  advance. 
His  only  very  decided  conviction  was,  that 
money  was  the  chief  good. 

Amy  fully  understood  her  father's  charac 
ter  ;  she  dreaded  the  result  of  Edward's  con 
fession  to  him.  She  bravely  resolved  to 
speak  first  to  him  herself,  and  thus  share  and 
perhaps  abate  some  of  the  indignation  which 
she  knew  otherwise  would  fall  entirely  on 
his  head.  Amy  possessed  a  peculiarly  free 
and  fearless  mind  ;  her  nature  had  instinctive 
ly  rebelled  against  the  narrowness  and  slavish- 
ness  of  her  father's  mode  of  thinking.  She 
had  early  learned  to  think  for  herself.  By 
her  mother's  death  she  had  been  placed,  at 
the  age  of  fourteen,  at  the  head  of  her  father's 
family.  He  was  rich ;  she  was  his  only 
2 


18  SKETCHES    OF 

child,  and  he  was  proud  of  her;  and  the 
darling  hope  of  his  heart  was,  that  his  daugh 
ter  should  form  what  he  considered  a  suita 
ble  connexion,  whenever  she  married. 

What  saved  Amy  in  this  trying  situation  ? 
what  made  her,  what  is  said  to  be 

"  The  thing  that's  most  uncommon, 
A  reasonable  woman  1 " 

Partly  the  reaction  of  that  saving  principle 
in  our  natures  which  God  has  so  mercifully 
implanted,  that  makes  the  tyrant  the  pro 
moter  of  freedom,  and  the  selfish  and  narrow 
the  teachers  of  an  enlarged  philanthropy.  It 
was  partly  this,  but  principally  the  religious 
education  she  received  from  her  mother.  It 
was  interwoven  with  her  earliest  thoughts, 
associated  with  her  childish  recollections,  and 
the  first  consciousness  of  her  own  nature,  and 
its  high  destiny.  The  religious  character  of 
Amy's  mind,  as  it  had  been  formed  by  her 
mother's  life,  so  had  it  been  hallowed  and 
sealed  by  her  death.  Her  father  had  never 
understood  the  treasure  he  possessed  in  his 
daughter ;  how  should  he  ?  he  had  never 
understood  her  mother. 

When  Amy  had  resolved  that  it  was  right 
that  she  should  be  the  first  to  meet  her 


MARRIED    LIFE.  IV* 

father's  anger,  she  allowed  no  false  shame,  no 
selfish  fears  to  influence  her  for  a  moment. 
As  soon  as  he  returned  from  his  walk,  she 
went  to  his  room. 

11  My  dear  Amy,"  said  he,  as  she  seated  her 
self  by  him  in  the  sofa,  "  why  were  you  so 
zealous  in  your  defence  of  Miss  Treville  last 
evening  ?  " 

"  Because,  father,  I  thought  the  censures 
that  were  passed  upon  her  were  unjust." 

"  But,  Amy,  I  can  assure  you  that  the  most 
respectable  part  of  the  company  thought 
otherwise." 

"  I  only  expressed  my  own  opinion,  you 
know,  father ;  and  I  thought  it  right  to  do  so, 
especially  as  she  was  not  there  to  defend  her 
self.  But,  father,  you  know  all  the  circum 
stances  of  that  affair,  and  know  how  blame 
less  she  was :  did  not  you  think  she  did 
right  ? " 

"  May  be  so,  and  may  be  not ;  but  the 
opinion  of  the  world  is  never  to  be  slighted, 
Amy  ;  the  wisest  and  best  condemn  her,  and 
that 's  enough  for  me.  I  do  not  pretend  to 
be  so  much  wiser  than  all  the  rest  of  the 
world." 

Amy  felt  that  this  was  an  unfavorable  mo 
ment  for  her  confession ;  but  she  bravely 
began. 


20  SKETCHES    OF 

"  I  have  come,  my  dear  father,  to  speak 
with  you  upon  a  subject  of  great  interest  — 
of  great  importance  —  " 

Amy  stopped ;  she  could  not  make  out  a 
finished  sentence.  Who  can,  when  they 
speak  of  what  is  more  than  life  or  anything 
that  life  has  to  offer.  She  looked  down,  and 
then  looked  up  into  her  father's  face  with 
that  earnest  imploring  look  that  seems  to  say, 
"  Oh,  if  you  could  read  my  heart !  "  She 
thought  of  her  mother  to  whom  she  could 
have  spoken  with  so  much  ease,  so  much 
trust :  her  eyes  filled  with  tears. 

"  What  is  it  you  would  say,  my  dear 
child  ? "  said  her  father,  tenderly. 

Amy  was  encouraged.     She  began  again. 

"  You  have,  perhaps,  observed  the  friend 
ship,  the  intimacy,  the  particular  regard  Ed 
ward  Selmar  and  I  have  long  had  for  each 
other." 

"  I  do  not  know  what  you  mean  by  par 
ticular  regard,  Amy.  I  have  seen  Mr.  Sel 
mar  here  very  often ;  I  supposed  you  thought 
very  well  of  him  ;  he  has  stood  very  well  in 
the  opinion  of  the  world,  I  believe." 

"  He  has  this  morning  declared  his  love 
for  me,  father." 

Had  Amy  told  her  father  that  some  one 


MARRIED    LIFE.  21 

had  threatened  her  life,  he  could  not  have 
expressed  more  horror  and  indignation  than 
he  did  at  this  intelligence. 

"  He !  Amy — he,  a  beggar,  a  bankrupt, 
presume  to  declare  his  love  to  my  daughter ! 
he,  without  a  cent  in  the  world,  dare  to  think 
of  marrying  you,  who  are  an  heiress !  He  is 
a  man  without  principle,  or  he  has  lost  his 
senses." 

"  When  he  came  here  this  morning,  father, 
he  had  no  intention  of  making  such  a  declara 
tion  to  me." 

"  And  how  came  he  to  do  such  a  dishonor 
able  thing  ?  "  exclaimed  Mr.  Weston,  stop 
ping  for  a  moment  his  violent  strides  across 
the  room,  to  take  breath.  "  Did  he  suppose 
I  was  going  to  marry  my  daughter  to  a  man 
without  a  dollar  in  his  pocket  ?  I  did,  I  con 
fess,  think  better  of  him  once." 

"  Edward  has  done  nothing  wrong,  father  ; 
our  attachment  has  existed  for  a  long  time, 
though  we  have  never  spoken  of  it.  He  saw 
in  his  failure  a  reason  for  separating  himself 
from  me,  and  relinquishing  hopes  which  he 
before  cherished,  and  which  I  had  tacitly  en 
couraged." 

"  And  that  would  have  been  acting  like  a 
man  of  honor  ;  and  why  has  he  done  so 


22  SKETCHES    OF 

shameful  a  thing  as  to  speak  to  you  upon  this 
subject  now  ?  Why,  if  he  is  what  you  sup 
pose  him  to  be,  did  he  not  sacrifice  his  feel 
ings  to  a  sense  of  duty  ? " 

"  Because  he  discovered  that  I  was  not 
willing  that  he  should  make  this  sacrifice." 

"  You,  Amy  !  you  not  willing !  This  sur 
passes  belief.  You,  a  lady,  so  far  set  at  defi 
ance  female  delicacy  as  to  say  you  were  not 
willing  he  should  make  this  sacrifice  !  did  I 
hear  right  ? " 

"  Yes,  father,  I  did  not  disguise  from  him 
the  truth  that  he  would  sacrifice  my  happi 
ness  as  truly  as  his  own  by  so  doing.  He 
discovered,  for  I  did  not  attempt  to  hide  it 
from  him,  that  I  loved  him  as  truly  as  he 
loved  me.  The  truth  is,  that  I  saw  in  his 
failure  a  sufficient  reason  for  a  degree  of 
frankness,  that,  but  for  his  misfortunes,  I 
might  have  thought  forwardness.  So  you 
see,  father,  if  there  was  any  one  to  blame,  it 
was  I." 

"Romantic  nonsense,"  cried  her  father, 
"  absurd  folly  !  what  would  the  world  say  to 
it  ?  "  and  he  strode  about  the  room  as  if  he 
would  fain  run  away  from  its  fearful  voice. 

"  I  could  not  think  of  the  world,  father,  at 
such  a  time  ;  and  I  could  not  consent  that 


MARRIED    LIFE.  23 

the  world  should  have  any  voice  in  choosing 
me  a  husband." 

"  Nor  that  your  father  should  either,  I  sup 
pose  ;  "  said  Mr.  Weston,  almost  foaming  with 
anger. 

"  Forgive  me,  dear  father,"  replied  Amy, 
"  I  should  be  a  great  hypocrite  if  I  were  to 
pretend  that  I  could  be  governed  by  any  one's 
authority  in  such  a  case ;  though  it  would 
make  me  very  unhappy  ^that  you  should  dis 
approve  of  my  choice." 

"  I  can  assure  you  that  I  do  entirely  disap 
prove  of  your  choice  ;  and  I  can  tell  you  that 
all  the  most  respectable  part  of  the  communi 
ty  will  think  very  ill  of  Mr.  Selmar,  unless 
you  tell  them  of  your  unparalleled  piece  of 
quixotism.  I  always  thought  that  your 
ridiculous  romantic  notions  would  be  your 
ruin  ;  and  I  cannot  think  it  very  honorable  in 
Mr.  Selmar  to  take  advantage  of  your  folly, 
and  to  propose  marriage  to  you,  now  that  he 
has  not  a  cent  he  can  call  his  own." 

"  He  has  done  no  such  thing,  father ;  he 
is  coming  to  see  you  this  evening,  to  tell  you 
that  he  should  never  speak  of  marriage,  till 
he  was  again  able  to  support  me." 

Mr.  Weston  was  somewhat  mollified  by 
this  intelligence.  Still  he  continued  striding 


24  SKETCHES    OF 

across  the  room,  and  manifesting  great  vexa 
tion.  "  I  hate  these  long  engagements ;  very 
tedious  and  disagreeable." 

"  But,  father,"  said  Amy,  "  I  shall  be  the 
longer  with  you  ;  you  do  n't  want  to  part 
with  me,  though  you  do  think  me  so  silly 
and  romantic." 

"  I  did  hope,  Amy,  that  whenever  you 
were  married,  you  would  form  such  a  con 
nexion  as  would  have  gratified  me  ;  all  my 
ambition  centred  in  you." 

"  Did  you  disapprove  of  Mr.  Selmar,  father, 
before  he  failed  ?  " 

"  May  be  so,  and  may  be  not ;  I  do  now, 
at  any  rate." 

"  There  was  nothing,  I  hear,  dishonorable 
in  his  failure  :  I  was  attached  to  him  before 
his  misfortune  ;  why  should  I  not  be  now  ?  " 

"  I  tell  you,  this  is  all  romance.  You  have 
been  so  educated  that  you  cannot  be  happy 
without  those  luxuries  which  money  alone 
can  procure.  You  will  understand  what 
nonsense  there  is  in  the  saying,  Us  s'  aiment 
comme  les  pauvres." 

"  I  have  always  thought,  father,  that  this 
saying  granted  to  the  poor  what  was  worth 
more  than  all  riches." 

After  a  long  silence,  Mr.  Weston  stopped 


I 

MARRIED    LIFE.  25 

short  rather  abruptly,  directly  before  Amy. 
"  One  thing,"  he  said,  "  I  shall  insist  upon, 
Amy,  if  I  do  consent  to  this  engagement ; 
and  that  is,  that  it  shall  be  kept  a  profound 
secret,  till  Mr.  Selmar  has  so  far  succeeded  in 
business  that  he  may  appear  a  suitable  match 
for  my  daughter." 

"  I  am  sorry,  my  dear  father,  that  I  cannot 
please  you  even  in  this." 

"  And  why  not,  Miss  ? " 

"  Because  I  should  be  a  deceiver,  and  lead 
people  to  suppose  that  my  hand  and  heart  are 
disengaged  when  they  are  not." 

"  And  of  what  consequence  is  it,  whether 
the  world  knows  or  not,  that  you  are  en 
gaged  ?  It  is  not  very  modest  in  you  to  sup 
pose  this  affair  is  of  so  much  importance  to 
others.  I  should  think  a  lady  of  truly  re 
fined  feelings  would  prefer  it  should  be  kept 
secret." 

"  It  is  natural,  father,  that  it  should  seem 
so  to  you ;  but  I  have  reasons  for  wishing 
otherwise,  which  I  would  rather  not  give  to 
any  one  ;  but  you  have  a  right  to  know  the 
whole.  It  is  better  that  I  should  seem  faulty 
to  you,  than  actually  do  wrong." 

"  And  pray  what  may  these  very  cogent 
reasons  be  ? " 


26  SKETCHES    OF 

"  I  may,  and  I  think  it  very  probable  I 
shall,  have  proposals  of  marriage  from  others, 
if  it  is  supposed  I  am  disengaged." 

"  It  is  very  presuming  in  you  to  take  this 
for  granted  ;  but  suppose  you  should,  you  are 
not  bound  to  accept  them." 

"  Why  should  I  give  unnecessary  pain  ?  I 
am  your  only  child,  and  you  are  rich,  and 
there  are  a  number  of  young  men  very  atten 
tive  to  me,  and  one  who  I  fear  loves  me.  He 
is  the  son  of  your  friend,  Mr.  Raymond." 

"  The  very  thing  I  most  desired  in  this 
world,"  interrupted  her  father ;  "  a  suitable 
match  in  every  respect ;  his  father  is  one  of 
our  first  men.  Oh,  Amy,  you  might  make  me 
so  happy !  why  cannot  you  give  up  that 
foolish  fancy  of  yours,  and  marry  him  ?  " 
Mr.  Weston  stood  looking  in  Amy's  face  as 
if  life  and  death  hung  upon  her  answer. 

"  Simply,  father,  because  I  do  not  love 
him,  and  I  do  love  Mr.  Selmar." 

"  Love  Mr.  Selmar !  how  can  you  utter 
such  a  thing  to  me  —  to  your  father  ?" 

"  Because  you  are  my  father,  and  I  must 
speak  plainly  to  you.  Would  it  not  be  wrong 
not  to  save  young  Raymond  the  pain  and 
mortification  of  a  refusal  ? " 

"  Has  he  ever  spoken  to  you  on  this  sub 
ject  ?  " 


MARRIED    LIFE.  27 

"  No ;  but  I  am  almost  certain  that  he 
will." 

"  Well,  when  he  *  does  so  it  will  be  time 
enough  to  tell  him  of  this  unlucky  entangle 
ment." 

"  Would  that  be  honorable  ?  would  it  be 
generous  ?  would  it  be  even  modest  ?  Surely, 
father,  you  cannot  thus  advise  your  daughter ! 
It  could  be  only  painful  to  me  to  receive  a 
declaration  of  love  from  one  whose  love  I 
do  not  return.  It  is  only  simple  justice  to 
prevent  it,  and  the  easiest  way  to  do  this  is  to 
let  it  be  known  that  my  hand  and  heart  are 
pledged  to  another." 

"  This  is  very  sentimental,  to  be  sure  ;  but 
how  do  you  know  that  your  feelings  will  not 
change  ?  or  that  Mr.  Selmar's  may  not  ?  It 
may  be  many  years  before  you  can  be  mar 
ried." 

"  I  must,"  replied  Amy,  "  act  according  to 
my  present  convictions  ;  and  I  am  as  certain 
of  my  own  feelings  and  determinations  as  of 
my  existence." 

Mr.  Weston  saw  that  it  was  in  vain  to  at 
tempt  to  influence  his  daughter  upon  a  sub 
ject  involving  what  she  considered  a  moral 
principle.  He  tried  to  persuade  himself  that 
she  was  wrong ;  still  he  could  not  help  re- 


28  SKETCHES    OF 

specting  her.  His  daughter  did  in  fact 
possess  an  influence  over  him  that  might 
seem  strange  to  those  who  have  never  esti 
mated  the  power  felt,  even  when  not  under 
stood,  which  a  high  uncompromising  alle 
giance  to  principle  exercises  over  those  who 
acknowledge  no  higher  standard  than  the 
opinion  of  the  world. 

Amy  had  succeeded  in  her  purpose  of 
saving  Edward  from  many  painful  remarks 
from  her  father.  In  his  interview  with  him 
in  the  evening,  Mr.  Weston  told  him,  very 
coldly,  that  his  daughter  had  explained  to  him 
their  relation  to  each  other ;  that  as  he  had 
not  been  consulted  by  either  of  them,  there 
was  nothing  left  for  him  to  say  ;  that  what 
ever  sentimentalists  might  think,  or  poets 
might  sing  about  love  in  a  cottage,  people 
now-a-days  had  more  sense,  and  knew  that 
such  notions  were  absurd.  Such  nonsense 
might  sound  well  in  novels,  but  all  the  re 
spectable  part  of  the  community  would  vindi 
cate  him  in  his  determination,  that  his  daugh 
ter  should  not  marry  a  man  who  could  not 
support  her  in  the  way  in  which  she  had 
been  accustomed  to  live.  "  I  therefore  trust 
to  you,  Sir,  as  a  man  of  honor,  that  you  will 
not  speak  to  my  daughter  of  marriage  till  that 
is  the  case." 


MARRIED    LIFE.  29 

This  Edward  assured  him  was  his  purpose ; 
but,  though  he  expected  nothing  better,  he 
felt  galled  and  fretted  when  he  actually  ex 
perienced  how  much  his  importance  was  di 
minished  by  the  loss  of  his  property.  Mr. 
Weston's  whole  manner  was  changed  towards 
him ;  it  was  distant,  and  supercilious,  and 
entirely  unlike  what  it  had  been  before  his 
failure.  He  was  now  a  poor  man. 

"  No  matter,"  said  he  to  himself,  as  he  left 
Mr.  Weston's  apartment.  "  These  lessons  to 
my  self-love  are  very  wholesome.  Poverty 
is  a  good  touch-stone ;  how  much  more  suf 
fering  than  all  I  have  endured  from  her 
worldly-minded  father,  would  not  one  smile 
from  Amy  chase  away !  " 

In  her  society  we  will  therefore  leave  him, 
to  recover  his  composure. 


CHAPTER   III. 


"  But,  turning  these  jests  out  of  service,  let  us  talk  in  good 
earnest."  As  YOU  LIKE  IT. 


"COME,  dear  Amy,  I  will  spare  your 
blushes,  and  save  you  the  trouble  of  telling 
me  why  you  sent  for  me  this  morning;  so 
compose  yourself,  while  I  take  off  my  bonnet 
and  shawl,  and  then  I  am  ready  to  hear  the 
whole  story.  I  met  Edward  Selmar  in  the 
hall,  and  he  looked  so  provokingly  happy, 
and  had  such  a  tell-tale  face,  and  such  a 
cousin-like  manner  towards  me,  that  he  has 
not  left  you  much  to  tell." 

All  this  was  said  by  Fanny  Herbert  to  her 
cousin,  as  she  entered  the  room  in  a  hurried 
manner,  and  with  her  face  all  glowing  with 
emotion. 

"  I  am  too  deeply  happy,  dear  Fanny,  to 
be  discomposed,"  said  Amy;  "and  I  am 
afraid  I  shall  not  be  sentimental  enough  even 
to  blush  to  your  satisfaction." 

"  That  is  just  like  you,  Amy ;  and  I  dare 


SKETCHES    OF    MARRIED    LIFE.  31 

say  that  you  would  behave  exactly  so,  if  you 
were  going  to  be  executed  instead  of  going 
to  be  married." 

"  I  hope,"  replied  Amy,  laughing,  "  that 
you  do  not  think  it  a  parallel  case." 

"  Why,  not  exactly,  in  all  respects ;  but  it 
has  many  points  of  resemblance.  When  a 
woman  promises  herself  away  in  marriage, 
she  resigns  her  name,  her  property,  her  affec 
tions,  her  opinions,  her  friends,  perhaps  her 
country,  her  will  —  in  short,  herself,  to  her 
future  lord  and  master." 

"No  wonder,"  replied  Amy,  "  that,  with 
these  ideas  of  matrimony,  you  expect  me  to 
be  agitated ;  but  I  do  not  acknowledge  that  I 
have  made  such  a  surrender  as  this." 

"  Let  me  see,  Amy ;  out  of  your  own 
mouth,  I  will  prove  that  you  have.  You 
resign  your  name." 

"  Yes  ;  but  a  name  is  of  no  consequence." 

"  Your  property  will  be  his  as  soon  as  you 
are  married,  unless  you  have  it  legally  settled 
upon  yourself  beforehand." 

"  You  know  that  I  have,  in  my  own  right, 
only  the  small  property  my  mother  left  me  ; 
and  Edward  would  not  choose,  even  if  my 
father  would  consent  to  it,  to  owe  his  support 
to  any  one.  But  I  agree,  Fanny,  that  the 


32  SKETCHES    OF 

law  is  unjust,  with  regard  to  married  women, 
upon  the  subject  of  property ;  it  puts  them 
upon  a  par  with  children." 

"Your  opinions  will  be  no  longer  free. 
You  must  think  as  your  husband  thinks,  or 
not  think  at  all,  or  else  there  is  no  peace  in 
the  house.  One  must  always  yield,  and  of 
course  it  must  be  the  wife." 

"  I  do  not  acknowledge  this,  Fanny. 
Where  opinions  deserve  the  name,  they 
must  be  free.  Married  people  are  very  like 
to  hold  the  same  opinions  on  the  most  im 
portant  subjects,  especially  where  there  has 
been  a  perfect  understanding  of  each  other's 
most  intimate  thoughts  before  marriage,  and 
where  there  exists  a  recognition  of  their  per 
fect  equality  afterwards.  But,  even  if  we 
differ,  Edward  and  I  agree  that  there  can  be 
no  slavish  submission,  where  a  true  love 
exists.  We  well  know  that  this  is  a  hetero 
dox  faith,  but  upon  it  we  rest  our  hopes  of 
happiness." 

"  A  rope  of  sand,  my  dear  Amy,  that  you 
are  trusting  to,  rely  upon  it.  But  to  proceed 
with  my  catechising :  you  have  promised 
your  heart  exclusively  to  him." 

"  I  could  not  promise  to  give  what  was  no 
longer  my  own  to  bestow.  My  heart  was 


MARRIED    LIFE.  33 

his,  and  I  confessed  it  j  but  this  is  only  a  fair 
exchange." 

"  If  he  does  not  happen  to  like  your  friends, 
you  must  give  them  up." 

"  I  made  no  vow  to  violate  my  conscience 
or  my  feelings.  Any  encroachment  that 
even  Edward  Selmar  should  make  upon  the 
freedom  of  my  affections  would  be  certainly 
followed  by  a  diminution  of  my  love  for 
himself.  I  feel  sure  that  he  would  despise 
any  homage  that  was  not  freely  offered." 

"  Your  place  of  residence  :  he  may  carry 
you  where  he  chooses." 

"  The  place  of  our  abode,  as  well  as  other 
subjects  involving  duty  and  happiness,  would 
be  decided  by  mutual  agreement  j  but  here  I 
confess  the  law  is  against  me." 

"  But  your  will :  you  have  no  longer  a 
will  of  your  own." 

"  I  cannot  will  to  resign  my  will.  It  is  a 
contradiction  in  terms ;  it  is  destroying  the 
cause  by  the  effect." 

"A  very  philosophical  conclusion,  truly, 
and  sounding  remarkably  well,  all  that  you 
say,  my  dear;  not  very  Miltonian  though; 
but  wait  till  you  are  Mrs.  Selmar,  and  see  if 
you  do  not  sing  a  different  tune  then.  Sub 
mission —  that  is  the  motto  for  a  married 
3 


34  SKETCHES    OF 

woman's  story ;  it  is  the  first,  second,  and 
third  requisite  for  perfection  in  the  good 
wife,  as  you,  of  course,  intend  to  be.  So  do 
not  flatter  yourself,  Amy,  that  you  will  ever 
have  your  own  way  again." 

"  But,  suppose,  Fanny,  that  his  way  should 
be  my  way ;  there  would  be  no  submission 
then  on  either  side." 

"That  reminds  me,"  said  Fanny,  "of  the 
German  couplet  we  learned  the  other  day : 

'  O,  wunderbare  Harmonic! 
Was  er  will,  will  auch  sie.'* 

Rely  upon  it,  when  you  disagree,  (and  that 
will  happen,)  you  must  always  yield,  right 
or  wrong." 

"  I  do  not  grant  this.  If  Edward  should 
ever  wish'  me  to  do  wrong,  I  shall  not  feel 
bound  to  comply,  but  think  I  do  him  more 
honor  by  a  refusal,  than  by  a  submission  for 
which  I  am  sure  he  would  and  ought  to 
despise  me." 

"  Very  pretty,  and  apparently  very  just, 
Amy ;  but  let  us  see  by-and-by.  You  are  so 
heartily  in  love  with  Edward  now,  that  you 
cannot  think  he  will  eyer  desire  any  thing 
wrong  ;  but  he  is  a  man,  and  he  is  human." 

*  O,  wonderful  harmony ! 
What  he  wills,  wills  also  she. 


MARKIED    LIFE.  35 

"  So  I  supposed,  when  I  engaged  to  marry 
him.  I  do  not  think  either  of  us  expect  per 
fection." 

"  But,  if  I  were  you,  I  should,  as  long  as 
possible,  require  it  of  him,  and  insist  upon 
his  thinking  me  nothing  short  of  divine. 
Now  is  your  time,  Amy ;  make  the  most  of 
your  short  reign." 

"  O,  Fanny !  Fanny !  I  hale  to  hear  you 
talk  so.  If  it  were  only  girlish  rattle,  I 
would  laugh  at  it,  and  forget  it ;  but  I  fear 
that  there  is  something  seriously  wrong  at 
the  bottom  of  it  all.  I  fear  that  you  are  now 
trifling  with  your  own  happiness,  as  well  as 
that  of  another,  under  the  influence  of  these 
unworthy  notions.  It  was  to  speak  to  you 
upon  this  subject,  that  I  wanted  to  see  you 
this  morning." 

"  And  so,"  replied  Fanny,  "  while  I  flat 
tered  myself  that  you  had  sent  for  me  to  tell 
me  a  very  pretty  love  story  of  your  own,  and 
that  I  was  to  be  that  important  personage,  a 
confidant,  upon  the  occasion,  and  know  the 
month  and  the  day  when  nobody  else  did, 
you,  forsooth,  only  sent  for  me  to  favor  me 
with  a  lecture,  followed,  I  suppose,  by  some 
of  those  agreeable'  didactic  remarks,  which 
most  of  my  kind  friends  are  pleased  so  gratu 
itously  to  bestow  upon  me." 


36  SKETCHES    OF 


"  Are  you  not  ashamed  of  such  nonsense, 
Fanny  ? " 

"  Ashamed  of  nonsense,  Amy !  Why,  I 
am  in  love  with  it.  It  is  as  important  as  my 
daily  bread  to  me.  All  other  pleasures,  all 
other  friends,  are  uncertain,  unfaithful ;  but 
nonsense  always  more  than  fulfils  its  promise, 
and  is  an  unfailing  help  in  adversity." 

"  I  have  no  objection  to  nonsense,  Fanny, 
in  its  right  place ;  but  there  are  occasions 
where  trifling  is  a  sin  —  where  we  should  be 
guided  only  by  reason  and  conscience." 

"  Well,  Amy,  do  n't  look  so  very  sober, 
and  I  will  be  good  for  a  little  while,  for  your 
sake.  I  love  you  well  enough  to  tolerate  the 
presence  of  reason,  if  she  does  not  bring  her 
knitting-work,  and  invite  herself  to  pass  the 
whole  day  with  me.  What  would  reason 
say  to  me  now,  Amy  ?  " 

"  Reason  would  ask,"  said  Amy,  "  whether 
you  are  acting  right  towards  William  Roberts. 
You  understand  me  now,  Fanny." 

"  O,  yes,  perfectly  well,  Amy ;  I  see  what 
you  are  after.  Excuse  me  ;  you  remind  me 
of  the  fox,  who,  having  been  unluckily 
caught  in  a  trap,  and  there  curtailed  of  some 
of  his  honors,  (pardon  this  atrocious  pun,) 
cunningly  called  together  the  other  foxes  of 


MARRIED    LIFE.  37 

his  acquaintance,  and  advised  them,  seriously, 
with  their  eyes  open,  and  of  their  own  free 
will,  to  submit  to  the  same  cruel  operation 
which  a  sad  chance  had  inflicted  upon  him. 
Thank  you,  my  dear  Amy ;  when  I  am  also 
caught,  I  will  certainly  take  counsel  of  you." 

"  Try  to  be  serious,  Fanny.  I  have  some 
thing  to  tell  you  that  I  think  you  have  too 
much  heart  to  laugh  at.33 

"  Well,  now,  Amy,  I  will  be  as  solemn 
and  well-behaved  as  if  I  was  just  engaged.33 

"  I  hear  from  Edward,33  said  Amy,  "  that 
your  friend,  William  Roberts,  is  going  to 
Europe.33 

Fanny  started.  "  Going  to  Europe !  Why, 
it  was  but  a  short  time  since,  that  he  told  me 
that  he  should  never  again  leave  his  own 
country ;  and  he  said  some  pretty  things 
about  his  untravelled  heart,  &c.  What  is  he 
going  for  ? J3 

"  To  get  rid  of  an  aching  heart,  if  he  can, 
and,  if  possible,  recover  a  healthful  tone  of 
mind.'3 

Fanny's  face  reddened  all  over,  and  then 
grew  very  pale.  She  tried  in  vain  to  hide 
her  emotions  at  this  intelligence. 

"  I  am  sorry,"  said  Amy,  "  to  see  you  suf 
fer;  but  the  remedy  is  in  your  own  hands." 


38  SKETCHES    OF 

"  What  can  I  do  ?  What  would  you  have 
me  do  ? " 

"  Be  simple  —  be  true." 

"  And  ask  him  to  please  not  go  to  Europe, 
but  to  stop  and  marry  me !  I  would  die 
first." 

"  I  would  have  you  do  nothing  unfeminine 
—  nothing  inconsistent  with  your  true  digni 
ty  ;  but  I  would  have  you  faithfully  question 
your  own  heart,  and  then  be  true  to  yourself 
and  to  him.  From  what  I  know  of  your 
real  feelings  towards  Mr.  Roberts,  I  fear  you 
have  coquetted  with  him ;  and  forgive  me, 
Fanny,  if  I  say  that  it  will  be  happy  for  you, 
if  some  sacrifice  of  your  pride  is  the  only 
punishment  you  receive.  It  is,  surely,  no 
slight  suffering,  that  can  make  such  a  man 
willing  to  give  up  his  country,  and  change 
all  his  habits  of  life.  Edward  agreed  with 
his  friend,  that  it  was  impossible  that  you 
could  really  love  him ;  and  surely,  Fanny,  if 
I  did  not  think  your  fault  was  mere  levity,  I 
could  hardly  forgive  you.  He  intends  going 
in  a  few  days." 

Poor  Fanny  sat  like  one  condemned.  Amy 
continued : 

"  It  was  his  intention  to  go  away  without 
seeing  you  again ;  he  thought  the  interview 
would  be  too  painful  for  him ;  but  I  told 


MARRIED    LIFE. 


39 


Edward  to  urge  him  to  go  and  say  farewell 
to  you ;  for  I  knew  that  in  your  heart,  Fanny, 
you  loved  him." 

Fanny  made  a  great  effort  to  recover  her 
self-command,  and,  after  a  minute,  said,  "I 


"Beware,  dear  Fanny,  of  the  effect  ol 
what  you  say  now  to  William  Roberts.  You 
cannot  now  gloss  over  to  your  conscience 
any  questionable  act.  You  know  to  what 
point  he  loves  you.  If  you  do  not  truly  love 
him  —  if  you  do  not  mean  to  marry  him,  do 
not  attempt  to  influence  him  in  any  way ;  do 
not  tempt  him  or  yourself  by  the  tantalizing 
profession  of  a  dangerous  friendship,  that 
mayor  may  not  be  love.  Be  simple  —  be 
true-hearted,  as  you  value  your  future  peace 
of  mind." 

Fanny  soon  rose  to  go  home.  As  they  parted, 
Amy  kissed  her  tenderly,  and  said,  "  All  will 
be  well,  dear  Fanny,  if  you  are  only  true  to 
yourself." 

"  How  is  it,  Amy,"  replied  Fanny,  as  she 
hastily  brushed  away  a  tear,  "that  I  still 
love  you  so  well,  when  you  make  me  feel  so 
cheap,  and  look  so  silly  ? " 


CHAPTER  IY. 


A  few  days  after  her  interview  with 
Fanny,  Amy  received  the  following  letter 
from  her. 

My  dear  philosophical  Cousin, 

As  the  weather  prevents  my  seeing  you  to 
day,  I  must  e'en  indite  a  little  epistle  to  you  ; 
for  I  have  too  many  things  on  my  heart  to 
keep  them  to  myself. 

I  took  your  advice,  and  did  not  put  on  any 
airs  when  Roberts  came  to  take  leave  of  me. 
I  was  a  perfect  Miranda ;  I  was  sorry,  very 
sorry  for  all  my  naughtiness  to  him ;  I  did 
not  tell  him  that  though ;  but,  somehow  or 
other  I  think  he  found  it  out.  I  told  him  I 
was  very  sorry  that  he  was  going  away,  and 
that  made  him  very  glad ;  and  —  but  you 
will  easily  guess  all  the  rest  —  we  of  course 
had  a  little  scene.  But,  Amy,  do  not  think  I 


SKETCHES    OF    MARRIED    LIFE.  41 

found  it  easy  to  be  so  very  good.  I  was 
tempted  sorely  when  I  saw  how  pleased  he 
was  at  my  regret  at  his  departure,  I  wanted 
dreadfully  to  tease  him  just  a  very  little  in 
revenge  for  having  obliged  me  to  make  such 
a  sacrifice  of  my  pride  ;  but  I  did  not.  I 
was  really  good  all  the  time  ;  I  was  as  good 
as  our  friend  Mrs.  Lovell,  or  Loveall  as  I  call 
her,  who,  you  know,  says  Sir  to  her  husband, 
and  my  dear,  to  every  body  else.  She  will 
patronize  me  now,  I  have  no  doubt,  as  Mr. 
Roberts  is  very  rich. 

Well  I  have  not  told  you  the  worst  of  it 
yet,  Amy.  I  have  not  only  had  the  indis 
cretion  to  let  Mr.  Roberts  find  out  that  I 
loved  him,  but  I  have,  if  you  will  believe  it, 
promised  to  marry  him,  as  your  Ruth  says 
right  away,  in  no  time.  This  I  like,  however  ; 
I  could  never  behave  well  through  a  long 
courtship.  Old  father  Jacob,  I  am  sure,  de 
served  all  his  honors  and  far  better  wives 
than  he  obtained  as  a  reward  for  waiting  so 
long  for  each  of  them.  I  certainly  should 
not  be  worth  waiting  seven  months,  nor  even 
seven  weeks  for,  I  fear.  It  is  hardly  fair  that 
I  should  marry  William  Roberts.  He  thinks 
me  better  than  I  am  ;  but  the  more  I  tell  him 
so,  the  more  he  will  not  believe  it.  Poor 


42  SKETCHES    OF 

fellow  !  I  hope  he  will  not  repent  when  it  is 
too  late.  I  feel,  dear  Amy,  like  a  Scotch 
song,  half  gay,  half  sad. 

What  ails  this  heart  o'  mine  1 
What  ails  this  watery  ee  1 

I  tell  you,  Amy,  William  Roberts  is  too 
good  for  me.  If  I  could  only  just  discover 
some  little  fault  in  him,  I  should  not  feel  so 
badly  about  marrying  him.  I  should  not 
feel  so  like  a  cheat.  What  if  he  should  come 
to  the  same  conclusion  after  we  are  married, 
and  there  is  no  help  for  it?  What  if  he 
should  cease  to  love  me,  when  he  finds  just 
what  I  am  ;  when  he  becomes  acquainted 
with  my  fidgetty,  irritable  temper  ?  What 
should  I  do  then  ?  Can  I,  Amy,  always  hope 
to  hide  my  weaknesses  from  him  ?  I  must 
try.  I  shall  be  happier  with  him  than  I  have 
ever  been  before,  and  he  is  a  pattern  of 
patience,  I  know. 

There  is  no  help  for  it  now ;  married  we 
are  to  be  as  soon  as  all  the  ridiculous  prepara 
tions  can  be  made  which  must  precede  this 
catastrophe.  I  love  him ;  I  always  have 
loved  him  better  than  anything  in  this  bless 
ed  life  :  there  are  but  two  things  that  can  be 
named  against  him ;  one  is  his  over-estimate 


MARRIED    LIFE.  43 

of  me ;  the  other  is  he  is  too  proper,  too 
polite.  You  have  before  you,  Amy,  a  far 
easier  task  than  I  have  ;  you  have  only  to  be, 
I  have  to  seem  excellent.  I  began  with  the 
intention  of  writing  just  a  little  note  to  you ; 
but  somehow  or  other  I  can  never  be  satisfied 
with  a  few  words  especially  with  you,  dear 
Amy :  this  is  one  of  my  faults,  and  the  cause 
of  many  others.  Roberts,  however,  is  a  silent 
man ;  so  it  is  fortunate  that  I  can  talk, 
especially  when  we  have  company.  If  he 
could  only  be  induced  to  talk  more,  perhaps 
I  should  not  find  him  so  very,  very  wise. 
I  often  think  that  the  only  difference  between 
the  wise  and  simple,  so  called,  is  that  while 
the  one  talks  out  all  his  or  her  folly,  the 
other  prudently  hides  it  by  saying  nothing. 
It  is  evident  I  am  no  such  hypocrite  as  this. 
One  thing,  dear  Amy,  I  have  never  yet  told 
you,  and  that  is  how  truly  and  how  tenderly 
I  love  you.  Truly  yours, 

FANNY  HERBERT. 

Amy  immediately  replied  to  her  cousin's 
letter. 

Dear  Fanny, 

Thank  you  for  your  long  note.    I  rejoice  at 
its  contents ;   I  rejoice  with  my  whole  heart 


44  SKETCHES    OF 

that  you  were  frank  and  upright  with  Mr. 
Roberts,  when  he  came  to  take  leave  of  you. 
There  can  be  no  true  dignity  in  falsehood  of 
any  kind,  and  there  is  always  ground  for 
suspicion  that  what  we  hide  we  are  ashamed 
of;  surely  you  cannot  be  ashamed  of  return 
ing  the  love  of  such  a  man  as  William 
Roberts. 

If  I  could  think  you  in  earnest  when  you 
say  you  wanted  to  tease  Mr.  Roberts,  I  could 
not  forgive  you  ;  but  I  believe  no  such  thing. 
You  are  only  playing  off  a  little  bravado, 
venting  some  of  your  superfluity  of  naughti 
ness  upon  me,  in  revenge  for  being  obliged,  in 
self-defence,  to  be  good  to  him. 

I  like  your  comparison  of  the  old  Scotch 
song.  The  deepest  fountains  of  our  nature  are 
all  unsealed  when  two  hearts  pledge  them 
selves  to  each  other  in  mutual  love.  Pleasure, 
pain,  hope,  fear,  strange  tumult,  unutterable 
peace,  alternately  sweep  over  our  new  strung 
souls,  awakening  there  a  latent  music  that  is 
like  a  reminiscence  from  a  higher  state  of 
being  ;  like  the  Lord's  song  in  a  strange  land  ; 
a  mingled  sound  of  heavenly  joy,  and  earthly 
sadness. 

Arid  no  wonder,  dear  Fanny,  that  we  are 
so  deeply  moved.  To  have  made  ourselves, 


MARRIED    LIFE.  45 

as  far  as  our  influence  goes,  responsible  for 
the  happiness  and  virtue  of  a  fellow-being,  is 
a  startling  thought ;  but  when  it  is  the  hap 
piness  of  one  whom  we  love  better  than  all 
the  world  beside,  the  soul  almost  shrinks 
with  fear  from  the  venture.  Yet,  is  not  this 
the  only  right  view  of  this  connexion  ?  How 
shall  we  make  ourselves  equal  to  these 
things  ?  From  whence  shall  we  derive  help 
and  strength  for  the  faithful  performance  of 
these  great  duties  —  whence  but  from  the 
Eternal  Source  of  our  being  ? 

Love  must  have  the  religious  principle  in 
it,  or  it  is  not  true  love.  It  must  be  self- 
forgetting,  self-sacrificing,  infinite  in  its  de 
sires,  infinite  in  its  purposes,  infinite  in  its 
joys, — or  it  is  not  true  love. 

I  did  not  intend  to  preach  a  sermon,  when 
I  began  ;  but  I  could  not  refrain  from  the  ex 
pression  of  my  feelings  to  you  who  have  been 
my  playfellow  and  companion  from  my  child 
hood  to  the  present  time.  Now  especially 
that  our  hearts  are  throbbing  with  kindred 
emotions,  I  could  not  help  pouring  out  my 
feelings  and  thoughts  to  you,  just  as  I  always 
have  done,  as  if  you  were  my  sister. 

We  will  not  allow  this  new  attachment  to 
supplant  the  affection  that  we  have  always 


46  SKETCHES    OF    MARRIED    LIFE. 

felt  for  each  other.  We  will  prove  the  truth 
of  what  I  have  always  believed,  that  the 
more  we  love,  the  more  we  may  love,  if  it  is 
not  a  narrow  and  selfish  attachment. 

I  have  been  so  much  in  earnest  that  I  have 
forgotten  to  banter  you,  as  I  intended,  upon 
your  abuse  yesterday  of  matrimony ;  but 
never  mind,  Fanny,  you  know  my  creed  is, 
Better  change  your  mind  every  day,  than 
continue  one  day  in  a  wrong  opinion.  I  will 
be  generous,  and  forget  what  you  have  said, 
as  you  have  repented  so  truly  and  so  soon. 
Yours  ever, 

AMY  WESTON. 


CHAPTER   V. 


'  Words !  words !  words ! " 

HAMLET. 


ALL  the  world  knows  that  there  is  no  cal 
culating  about  affairs  of  the  heart ;  yet  all 
have  an  opinion,  and  decide  upon  them  as 
though  they  were  subject  to  fixed  laws ;  and 
although  men  and  women  Will  marry  to 
please  themselves,  yet  the  public  will  judge  of 
such  things  as  though  it  was  their  particular 
business;  and  they  were  the  party  concerned. 
Every  one  said,  when  they  heard  of  the  en 
gagement  of  the  two  cousins,  What  a  pity  it 
is,  that  they  could  not  change  lovers !  Mr. 
Roberts  is  so  calm  and  reasonable  —  he  is  so 
prudent,  and  has  such  an  excellent  judgment 
—  he  is  reserved  and  silent ;  so  is  Amy  Wes- 
ton ;  they  seem  made  for  each  other  ;  —  while 
Mr.  Selmar  is  so  excitable — rather  hasty  — 
something  of  an  enthusiast  —  very  frank  and 
talkative,  I  should  have  thought  that  he  and 
Fanny  Herbert  would  have  been  sure  to 
fancy  each  other. 


48 


Now,  as  is  generally  the  case,  the  world 
(that  many-eyed  but  short-sighted  person 
age)  was  partly  right  and  mainly  wrong.  It 
was  true,  that  Amy  and  Roberts  both  pos 
sessed  a  remarkable  quietness  of  manner. 
With  Mr.  Roberts,  it  was  the  effect  of  a 
deep-rooted  pride,  that  would  have  consider 
ed  it  a  departure  from  his  dignity  to  be  agi 
tated  ;  not  because  self-control  was  a  virtue, 
but  because  it  was  graceful,  and  was  a  proof 
of  power  and  superiority,  not  to  be  moved  as 
other  people  are.  He  was  a  man  of  strong 
passions  and  generous  emotions  ;  but  he  kept 
them  all  in  subjection  to  an  artificial  standard 
of  excellence  of  his  own  raising.  There 
was  a  reserve  —  a  want  of  freedom  in  him, 
which  had  its  origin  in  a  want  of  faith  in 
himself  and  in  others. 

Amy  had  the  same  calm  and  self-collected 
manner  ;  but  it  arose  from  a  different  principle. 
She  never  thought  of  the  effect  of  it  upon 
others ;  she  was  unconscious  of  the  power  it 
gave  her ;  she  "  wist  not  that  her  face  shone." 
Edward  Selmar,  to  whom  she  was  engaged, 
it  is  true,  differed  from  herself  in  all  externals. 
He  was  frank  and  talkative  ;  she  was  as  frank 
when  she  did  speak,  but  apt  to  be  silent. 
He  had  an  excitable,  ardent  temperament; 


MARRIED    LIFE.  49 

in  her  the  elements  were  so  harmoniously 
blended,  that  all  the  Christian  graces  were 
more  natural  and  easy  to  her.  But,  in  all 
essential  principles,  they  were  strictly  united. 
The  deep  under  currents  of  their  souls  seemed 
to  flow  from  kindred  sources,  and  mingle 
together  in  harmony.  Selmar's  nature  led 
him  to  commit  many  faults,  but  he  was  ever 
ready  to  confess  and  amend  them. 

Fanny,  who,  by  her  wit,  her  beauty,  and 
her  many  nameless  attractions,  had  captivated 
Mr.  Roberts,  was  so  made  up  of  faults  and 
excellences  —  was  so  whimsical  —  so  apt  to 
do  wrong  —  so  sure  to  be  sorry  for  it  —  so 
unkind  in  her  actions  at  one  time  —  so  mag 
nanimous  at  another  —  so  without  a  principle 
of  right,  and  yet  so  full  of  all  good  things  by 
nature,  that  one  might  as  well  attempt  to 
catch  and  analyze  a  jack  o'  lantern  as  to 
describe  her.  She  was,  however,  the  only 
being  in  the  world  who  had  succeeded  in 
destroying  Mr.  Roberts'  self-control,  and 
causing  his  prudence  to  be  questioned. 

As  soon  as  a  house  could  be  furnished,  and 
all  the  fashionable  paraphernalia  for  a  bride 
provided,  Fanny  and  Mr.  Roberts  were  mar 
ried. 

Next  to  the  barbarity  of  the  pomp  and  cir- 
4 


50  SKETCHES    OF 

cumstance  of  funerals,  comes  that  of  the  for 
malities  and  shows  at  weddings.  It  will  be 
said  by  some,  "Is  it  not  a  fit  time  for  a  festi 
val,  when  two  loving  hearts  are  united?" 
Surely,  if  it  be  a  heart-felt  festival ;  but  have 
our  wedding  visits  and  wedding  parties  this 
character  ?  It  is  dress  —  dress ;  there  is  no 
heart  in  it.  The  bride  and  bridegroom,  if 
they  really  love  each  other,  cannot  be  in 
terested  in  such  empty  show.  Life  has  a 
new  and  a  more  deep  reality  to  them.  They 
can  sympathize  only  in  what  is  simple  and 
true. 

All  the  world  had  assembled  to  pay  their 
compliments  to  the  new-married  couple. 
Edward  Selmar  was  standing  by  Amy  Wes- 
ton :  he  looked  dejected.  "  If  we  are  ever 
married,  Amy,"  he  said  to  her,  "  we  will  not 
have  such  a  foolish  parade  as  this.  How 
intolerable  it  must  be  to  Roberts  and  Fanny ! 
The  tears  are  hardly  dry  upon  poor  Fanny's 
cheek,  which  the  ceremony  called  forth.  She 
looks  like  a  victim.  I  think  there  is  more 
sense  in  doing  as  a  couple  did,  who  came 
into  a  clergyman's  house  where  I  was  visiting 
the  other  evening.  The  man  said,  as  he 
entered,  '  We  have  been  calculating,  sir,  a 
good  while,  to  be  married ;  and  we  thought, 


MARRIED    LIFE.  51 

4 

as  we  were  going  by  this  evening,  we  would 
just  stop  in,  and  be  made  man  and  wife.5  " 

"  I  cannot  say,"  replied  Amy,  "  that  I 
should  fancy  that  way,  though  I  do  not  like 

this.  We  must  not  do  as  Dr. used 

to  say  some  folks  did  —  stand  so  upright  as 
to  bend  backwards." 

"  Do,  Amy,  look  at  Roberts,  among  all 
those  fashionables ;  he  looks  in  a  sort  of 
maze.  There  goes  Mrs.  Lovell,  to  congratu 
late  him.  How  patronizing  she  looks !  How 
foolish  he  appears.  She  is  making  much  of 
him.  Deliver  me  from  being  patronized  by 
her!" 

"  Never  fear,  till  you  ride  in  your  own 
coach  again.  She  patronizes  no  one  who 
goes  afoot,  or  who  is  not  distinguished  in 
some  way  or  other.  The  sanction  of  public 
opinion  is  necessary  to  secure  her  attentions." 

"  I  detest  such  a  character." 

"  It  deserves  more  to  be  pitied.  She  shows 
that  she  has  a  very  low  estimate  of  the  value 
of  her  own  opinion  —  that  she  does  not  judge 
for  herself.  She  does  not  value  her  own 
honest  thought  even  as  much  as  we  value  it. 
She  is,  in  the  main,  kind-hearted,  and  would 
be  good,  if  she  only  had  the  courage  to  be 
so." 


52  SKETCHES    OF 

$ 

"  It  is  all  worldly-mindedness  and  ambition. 
I  am  sick  of  it.  How  much  longer  do  you 
mean  to  stay,  Amy  ?  " 

"  Do  not  you  remain  any  longer,  if  you 
wish  to  go,  Edward."  Amy  spoke  very 
kindly,  but  Edward's  mind  was  out  of  tune. 

"  It  is  not  so  easy,"  he  replied,  "  for  me  to 
leave  you  as  you  seem  to  suppose,  Amy." 

"  You  mistook  me,  Edward.  You  know 
that,  as  Fanny's  intimate  friend,  people  would 
think  it  very  strange,  if  I  were  to  go  away 
now." 

"  People  would  think !  These  are  the 
magic  words  that  govern  the  fashionable 
world." 

"  They  do  not.  you  know,  govern  me, 
Edward.  If  you  really  wish  me  to  go  home 
now,  I  will  go ;  for,  though  I  should  other 
wise  prefer  to  remain,  that  is  a  trifle  ;  while 
giving  you  pain  can  never  be  a  trifle." 
v  "  No,  no,  Amy ;  I  am  not  so  bad  as  that. 
I  will  stay,  and  try  to  be  agreeable..  Let  the 
world  govern  whom  it  may.  I  am  contented 
to  be  governed  by  you." 

"  But  I  have  no  desire  to  take  upon  me 
such  an  office." 

"  That  is  the  very  reason  why  I  wish  you 
to  hold  it,"  replied  Edward. 


MARRIED    LIFE.  53 

— ;'::;  /**    «.,• 

"  Come,  come,"  said  a  brisk-looking  lady, 
who  just  then  joined  them ;  "  this  is  as  bad 
as  for  married  people  to  be  talking  together 
in  company  ;  it  is  not  fair.  Tell  me  if  you 
have  heard  of  the  affair  that  took  place  at 
Mrs.  Longman's  party." 

"  No,"  was  the  answer. 

"  O,  I  am  glad  of  it.  It  is  a  capital  story, 
and  I  will  tell  you  all  about  it.  Mrs.  Long 
man  had  a  large  party  of  young  people,  andr 
in  order  to  entertain  her  company,  made  a 
sort  of  lottery,  in  which  every  one  present 
was  offered  a  ticket  —  the  number  of  each 
ticket  answering  to  that  of  one  of  the  couplets 
contained  in  two  baskets,  one  for  the  ladies, 
and  the  other  for  the  gentlemen.  When 
Mr.  Sharp's  number  was  called,  what  do  you 
think  he  drew  ?  You  know  he  is  the  very 
genius  of  dullness. 

'You  are  too  tedious —  too  prosing — too  sleepy; 
What  lady  could  fancy  Sir  Samuel  SheepyT 

Then  little  Miss  Black  was  called  up,  a  min 
iature  belle,  not  more  than  sixteen.  (You 
know  she  looks  like  a  child.)  She  had  these 

lines  for  her  portion  of  the  amusement : 

i 

'  If  so  soon,  little  miss,  for  a  husband  you  sigh, 
A  gingerbread  one  I  advise  you  to  buy.' 

*s 


54  SKETCHES    OF 

She  actually  shook  her  little  elbows  with 
vexation.  A  sort  of  titter  ran  through  the 
whole  room.  Then,  you  know  Mr.  Brush, 
who  is  a  very  sensible  man,  but  very  partic 
ular  and  quiddling  —  he  received  this  for  his 
dose: 

1  Do  walk  like  a  man,  and  leave  off  that  diddle; 
The  lady  you  love  can't  marry  a  quiddle.' 

He  supplied  the  last  word  himself,  saying, 
c  That  means  me,'  and  walked  off  to  a  corner 
of  the  room.  There  were  many  more  almost 
incredible  chance-strokes  of  the  same  kind  ; 
but,  worse  than  all,  when  the  rich  Miss 
Reed's  number  was  called,  she  came  up, 
laughing,  and  these  words  were  heard  all 
through  the  room : 

'Although  his  words  are  sweet  as  honey, 
His  heart  is  fixed  upon  your  money.' 

Every  one  knows  that  she  was  always  a 
little  suspicious,  though  unjustly,  that  the 
gentleman  she  was  engaged  to  was  influenced 
in  his  choice  by  mercenary  views.  She 
grew  crimson  red,  and  she  and  her  lover 
forthwith  departed,  evidently  .thinking  this 
was  a  questionable  sort  of  pastime.  Many 
tore  their  tickets  in  pieces,  and  said  they  did 


MARRIED    LIFE.  55 

not  wish  a  prize  in  such  a  lottery.  One  after 
another  left  the  room,  looking  as  if  they  had 
had  their  noses  pulled.  Mrs.  Longman  or 
dered  in  the  ice  creams  —  flew  from  one  side 
of  the  room  to  the  other  —  fidgeted  about, 
and  wondered  why  people  went  away  so 
early.  She  said,  '  It  was  curious,  how  things 
turned  out  sometimes.  She  thought  that 
this  would  be  so  entertaining.'  Nobody 
minded  her  ice  creams,  or  her  remarks ;  they 
only  seemed  anxious  to  get  out  of  the  house. 
But  the  worst  plight  of  all,  perhaps,  was  that 
of  the  ladies  who  had  written  these  saucy 
things,  at  Mrs.  Longman's  request,  without 
an  idea  of  the  possibility  of  such  a  catastrophe 
as  they  witnessed.  At  first,  they  stood  it 
pretty  well ;  but  I  saw  them  grow  redder 
and  redder ;  and  they  looked,  at  last,  as  if 
the  candles  burned  blue,  and  they  thought 
they  saw  evil  spirits.  Poor  Mrs.  Longman 
was  sick  a-bed  the  next  day.  A  capital  story, 
is  it  not  ?  O,  there's  Mr.  Henry.  He  likes 
a  good  story ;  I  must  tell  it  to  him."  And 
away  she  went,  to  tell  it  to  the  rest  of  the 
company. 

"  Did  you,"  said  Edward,  "  observe  Mrs. 
Manners'  eyes  —  how  they  wandered,  while 


56  SKETCHES    OP 

she  was  telling  that  story  ?  They  were  in 
search  of  the  next  person  to  whom  she  intend 
ed  to  relate  it.  She  reminded  me  of  a  person 
whom  you  meet  on  his  way  to  a  steam-boat, 
or  rail-car,  whose  face  says,  all  the  time  '  I  fear 
I  shall  be  too  late.'  She  told  the  story  well, 
and  she  is  very  sensible  ;  but  what  a  pity  that 
she  loves  admiration  so  much.  Did  you  see 
her  take  notice  of  herself,  and  adjust  her 
sleeves  as  she  passed  the  pier  glass  ?  but  she 
does  not  patronize,  so  I  forgive  her." 

"  It  is  not  fair,"  said  Amy,  "  to  stand  here 
criticising  others,  instead  of  being  agreeable 
yourself,  as  you  promised  you  would." 

"  I  am  taking  the  part  of  listener,"  said 
Edward,  "  which  is  always  acceptable  if  it  is 
done  well." 

"A  warm  evening,"  said  a  young  lady 
who  was  near. 

"  duite  warm,"  replied  Edward. 

"  Delightful  party,  is  it  not  ?  " 

"  Oh  yes,  of  course." 

"  How  beautifully  the  bride  looks." 

"  Yes,  she  is  beautiful." 

"Don't  you  think  brides  always  look 
handsome  ?  " 

"  Certainly." 

"  Is  not  her  dress  superb." 


MARRIED    LIFE.  O/ 

"  I  suppose  so." 

"  I  hear  that  Mr.  Roberts  is  a  delightful 
man :  is  he  not  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  am  much  attached  to  Mr.  Roberts." 

"  I  never  talk  with  him,  I  hear  he  is  so 
learned.  I  never  talk  with  philosophers,  I 
am  afraid  of  them.  I&  Mrs.  Roberts  blue  ?  " 

"  What  do  you  call  blue  ?  " 

"  Oh  a  lady  that  reads  reviews,  under 
stands  the  onomies,  the  ologies,  physics, 
metaphysics,  &c.  &c." 

Here  the  lady  laughed.  Before  Mr.  Sel- 
mar  could  answer  her  question  she  tried 
another  subject. 

"  Have  you  been  to  the  centre-table  and 
seen  the  caricatures  ? " 

"  No  ;  I  do  not  like  caricatures,  unless  they 
are  very  good." 

"  Do  n't  you  ?  I  think  they  are  beautiful ; 
perhaps  you  do  not  like  parties  ?  " 

"Not  much." 

"  You  do  n't  say  so  ;  I  think  they  are  beau 
tiful  ;  there  is  nothing  I  admire  so  much. 
Oh  hush ;  Miss  Treville  is  going  to  sing.  I 
am  so  fond  of  music,  my  favorite  song  too." 

After  beating  time  through  one  bar  with 
her  pretty  fan,  she  entered  into  a  loud  whis 
pering  conversation  with  a  young  beau  who 


00  SKETCHES    OF 

stood  next  to  her,  which  she  continued 
through  the  remainder  of  the  song." 

"  Do  you  know,  Mr.  Selmar,"  said  the 
young  lady,  "  that  Miss  Sidney  is  going  to 
marry  Mr.  Wright  ?  " 

"  No,  I  did  not." 

"  Why  all  the  world  are  talking  about  it," 
said  the  young  man. 

"  Are  they  ?  " 

"  Oh  yes ;  and  they  wonder  such  a  man 
should  marry  such  a  woman,  to  whom  he 
will  always  have  to  play  second  fiddle." 

"  What  do  you  suppose,  is  the  reason,  Mr. 
Selmar,"  said  the  belle,  "  that  ordinary  men 
so  often  take  a  fancy  to  these  very  fine 
women  ? " 

"  I  suppose,"  answered  Edward,  "  they 
have  the  organ  of  marvelousness  very  large, 
and  for  this  reason  are  liable  to  being  smitten 
with  what  is  to  them  most  mysterious,  and 
altogether  beyond  their  comprehension." 

"  How  severe  you  are  this  evening,"  said 
the  belle,  laughing. 

"  But  how,  in  such  a  case,  do  you  account 
for  the  lady's  choice  ?  "  asked  the  beau. 

"  That  is  a  question  too  deep  for  my 
philosophy,"  replied  Edward. 

She  then  resumed  her  gossip  with  the 
beau,  in  an  affected  whisper. 


MARRIED    LIFE.  59 

I  -v  » 

"Do  you  know,"  said  she,  "that  Miss 
Belmont  the  authoress  is  here  ?  " 

"  Oh  no,  I  should  like  to  see  a  live  au 
thoress  of  note.  I  have  never  seen  a  first- 
rate  specimen.  Where  is  she  ?  " 

"  There  she  is  by  Mrs.  Lovell,  dressed  in 
blue." 

"  That's  right,  shows  her  colors,  so  that 
they  who  have  not  courage  to  meet  her  may 
have  a  chance  to  run  away,  And  live  to  fight 
another  day." 

"  It  seems  to  me  that  she  looks  quite  like 
other  folks." 

"  Yes ;  no  one  would  think  that  she  was 
anything  remarkable." 

"  I  dare  say  she  is  much  overrated,"  said 
the  belle. 

"  This  is  very  natural,"  answered  the  beau. 
"  It  is  so  unusual  for  us  Americans  to  have  a 
live  curiosity  of  our  own  ;  most  of  those  we 
have  are  stuffed,  and  came  from  foreign 
parts." 

Both  laughed  at  this  jeu  d'  esprit,  and  even 
Edward  smiled. 

"  I  mean,"  said  the  lady,  "  to  be  introduced 
to  her." 

"Do  you?  why  what  will  you  say  to 
her?" 


60  SKETCHES    OF 

"  Oh  I  do  n't  intend  to  talk  with  her  ;  I  only 
want  to  be  able  to  say  that  I  have  been  in 
troduced  to  her." 

"  She  is  not  half  so  imposing  in  her  ap 
pearance  as  the  lady  who  is  standing  near 
her." 

"  No  she  has  nothing  of  the  true  haut  ton." 

c:  Very  true  :  just  compare  her  with  Mrs. 
Lovell,  who  stands  by  her.  Miss  Belmont 
looks  as  if  she  forgot  she  was  in  company." 

"  Do  n't  you  think  she  is  graceful  ?  "  said 
Mr.  Selmar. 

"  Why  yes,  rather  graceful,"  replied  the 
belle. 

"  I  think  there  is  great  dignity  in  her  sim 
plicity,"  added  Mr.  Selmar. 

"  Now  I  notice  it,  she  is  rather  dignified." 

"  Then  she  looks  so  loveable." 

"  That  is  true,  she  has  a  look  as  if  one 
might  love  her.  I  wonder  if  she  is  writing  a 
book  !  I  mean  to  ask  her." 

"  Do  you  think,"  asked  Selmar,  "  that 
would  be' an  agreeable  question  to  her  ?  " 

"  Oh  la !  she  must  be  hardened  to  all  such 
things  by  this  time.  Come,  Mr.  Bowman, 
now  is  a  good  time  for  us  to  be  introduced  to 
her ;  but  we  must  take  care  of  what  we  say, 
or  we  shall  get  into  her  next  book." 


MARRIED    LIFE. 


61 


"  Yes,"  said  the  gentleman,  "  whenever 
you  associate  with  an  authoress,  your  great 
object  must  be  to  keep  out  of  her  books." 
This  sapient  couple  then  tripped  away,  laugh 
ing  at  their  own  stale  jests.  Mr.  Selmar 
looked  up  at  Amy  with  a  doleful  expression 
of  face,  as  much  as  to  say,  Can  this  be  en 
dured  any  longer  ?  when  Mr.  Weston  joined 
them. 

"  I  saw  you,  father,"  said  Amy,  "  talking 
with  Miss  Belmont,  and  I  thought  you  look 
ed  pleased." 

"  Yes,  I  was  rather  pleased  ;  all  the  world 
calls  her  agreeable.  It  is  a  pity  that  she 
thinks  she  knows  anything  of  politics.  I 
cannot  bear  to  hear  a  woman  talk  politics." 

"  Is  it  not  of  equal  importance  to  a  woman 
as  to  a  man,  what  the  government  is  under 
which  she  lives  ?  and  if  so,  is  it  not  natural 
that  she  should  have  some  opinion  ?  " 

"  The  wisest  and  best  have  agreed  that 
women  are  not  equal  to  deciding  upon  the 
great  questions  relating  to  government." 

"  The  wisest  and  best  are  always  men,  are 
they  not,  father  ?  " 

"  All  the  sensible  women  of  my  acquaint 
ance,"  said  Mr.  Weston,  who  did  not  choose 
to  answer  Amy's  question,  "  agree  with  the 


62  SKETCHES    OF    MARRIED    LIFE. 

great  majority  of  men,  in  thinking  that  the 
female  mind  is  not  equal  to  politics." 

Amy  was  always  silent  when  her  father 
talked  about  the  female  mind :  she  was  so 
heterodox  as  to  believe  that  mind  was  of  no 
sex ;  but  she  knew  she  could  not  change  her 
father's  opinion. 

"  Amy,"  said  Fanny,  as  she  bade  her  good 
night,  "  remember  that  you  have  not  yet  re 
signed  your  office  of  monitor." 

"  Yes  I  have,"  replied  Amy,  "  to  Mr. 
Roberts,  as  his  sole  right." 

"  No  !  no  !  I  do  not  consent.  I  am  more 
used  to  being  good  with  you ;  and  besides, 
Mr.  Roberts  is  too  indulgent,  he  lets  me  be 
as  naughty  as  I  please." 

"  I  trust  that  he  will  be  a  truer  friend  than 
that,"  said  Amy,  and  they  parted. 

And  now  all  the  company  one  after  another 
took  their  leave.  It  seemed  as  if  the  lights 
gradually  faded  away,  and  the  flowers  droop 
ed  as  each  belle  with  her  attendant  beau 
departed. 


CHAPTER  VI. 


'  Possessions  vanish,  and  opinions  change, 
And  passions  hold  a  fluctuating  seat; 
But,  by  the  storms  of  circumstance  unshaken, 
And  subject  neither  to  eclipse  nor  wane, 
Duty  exists."  WORDSWORTH. 


"  I  HAVE  been  out  of  tune  this  evening," 
said  Edward,  as  soon  as  he  and  Amy  were 
alone  together. 

"So  I  have  observed ;  and  I  was  sorry  to 
see  it." 

"  Perhaps  you  have  blamed  me  for  it." 

"  I  thought,  Edward,  it  would  have  been 
better,  if  you  had  been  more  willing  to  be 
pleased,  particularly  as  it  was  Fanny's  wed 
ding." 

"You  do  not  sympathize  with  my  state  of 
feeling,  Amy." 

"  I  think  I  can  understand  and  excuse  your 
feelings,  though  I  do  not  sympathize  with 
them." 

"But  I  should  be  better  pleased,  if  you 
did." 


fi  SKETCHES    OF 

"  What !  if  you  did  not  feel  rightly,  Ed 
ward  ? " 

"  It  may  be  a  great  fault  in  me,  but  I  fear 
I  do." 

"  You  do  yourself  injustice,  Edward.  We 
have  agreed  that  we  will  be  faithful  friends 
to  each  other,  —  not  flatterers." 

"  True,  Amy ;  but  you  forget  the  peculiar 
trials  of  my  case ;  to  have  lost  my  property 
just  at  this  moment,  when  I  am  sure  of  your 
love.  But  for  my  misfortunes,  we  might  be 
married,  as  well  as  Fanny  and  Roberts.  O, 
Amy,  I  have  not  felt  like  a  Christian  this 
evening ;  I  have  been  envious  of  the  happi 
ness  of  my  friend." 

"Have  faith  —  have  patience;  all  will  yet 
be  well." 

"  It  must  be  so  long  before  I  can  possess 
such  a  property  as  will  satisfy  your  father's 
ambition ;  perhaps  never." 

"  Should  not  this  uncertainty  about  the 
future  teach  us  to  make  the  most  of  the 
present  ? " 

"  I  cannot  be  so  very  reasonable  as  you 
are,  Amy." 

"  Do  not  mistake  me,  Edward ;  do  not 
think  me  cold,  because,  when  I  am  with 
you,  I  am  too  happy  to  think  of  the  future. 


MARRIED    LIFE.  65 

Our  love  is  a  present,  enduring  reality,  into 
which  the  spirit  of  fear  cannot  enter ;  is  it 
not,  Edward?" 

"You  are  right,  Amy,  and  I  have  been 
wrong.  Yours  is  the  true,  the  heavenly 
love  —  all  hoping,  all  trusting.  You  shall 
help  me  to  subdue  the  spirit  of  complaint. 
You  have  already  put  a  better  heart  into  me." 

In  man's  impatience  under  suffering,  is 
there  not  something  of  that  sense  of  superior 
ity  which  was  the  origin  of  the  slavish  state 
in  which  woman  has  existed  for  ages,  and  to- 
which  she  is  still  doomed  in  many  parts  of 
the  world?  When  exposed  to  the  same 
trials,  do  we  not  often  see  the  woman  endur 
ing  with  a  quiet  patience,  a  cheerful  cour 
age  ;  while  lordly  man  either  submits  with  a 
cold  and  haughty  calmness,  or  fiercely  resists 
and  complains,  as  if  his  chartered  rights  were 
infringed.  This  gives  rise  to  a  fault  in 
woman,  which  deserves  still  more  to  be  rep 
robated  ;  it  is  that  of  flattering  this  weakness 
in  man,  and,  by  that  means,  gaining  by  art 
that  ascendancy  over  him,  which  he  finds  so 
much  self-complacency  in  thinking  he  pos 
sesses  over  her  by  nature.  In  both  sexes,  it 
is  an  unrighteous  love  of  dominion.  Amy 
equally  detested  any  approach  to  the  character 


66  SKETCHES    OF 

of  tyrant  or  slave.  She  would  neither  flatter 
nor  be  flattered.  It  was  this  noble  inde 
pendence  of  soul  that  first  attracted  Edward ; 
and,  although  his  self-love  was  sometimes 
tried  by  it,  yet  did  he  always  love  and  honor 
her  the  more  for  her  faithful  allegiance  to 
his  as  well  as  her  own  principle  of  action. 

After  a  silence  of  some  minutes,  Edward 
resumed  the  conversation. 

"  I  know,  Amy,  that  you  will  have  patience 
with  me ;  but  there  is  something  almost  in 
tolerable  in  the  state  in  which  I  am  now 
placed.  Every  one  appears  to  me  to  look 
differently  upon  me,  since  I  lost  my  property, 
except  you ;  and  the  only  way  in  which  I 
can  win  back  their  regard  —  the  only  way  in 
which  I  can  win  even  you,  Amy,  is  by  gain 
ing  money.  How  I  hate  the  very  word ! 
and  yet,  never  before  did  I  so  desire  the 
thing." 

"  There  is  another  and  a  far  more  just 
view  of  your  case,  Edward." 

"What  is  it,  Amy?" 

"  Has  not  your  failure  discovered  to  you, 
as  well  as  to  me,  that  we  are  bound  together 
by  stronger  ties  than  prosperity  could  have 
formed?  Do  we  not  suffer  together?  Did 
you  not  tell  my  father  that  you  were  satis 
fied?" 


MARRIED    LIFE.  67 

*'*•  4'"       ^?  * 

"  And  I  ought  to  be  satisfied.  I  asked  —  I 
wanted  nothing  of  him  but  his  daughter, 
when  I  can  maintain  her.  But  this  odious 
money,  Amy." 

"  Come  !  you  must  not  quarrel  so  with  mon 
ey,  at  the  same  time  that  you  say  that  with  it 
you  can  possess  my  hand.  This  is  not  very 
gallant  in  you,  Edward.  I  shall  expect  you 
to  think  that  money-making  is  very  pleasant 
work,  for  my  sake.  I  only  wish  I  could 
help  you,  and  do  something  myself;  but,  on 
the  contrary,  here  I  am  doomed  to  useless- 
ness,  because  my  father  is  a  rich  man." 

"  You  are  right,  Amy  ;  you  are  right,  and 
I  am  all  wrong.  You  shall  not  see  me  so 
weak  again.  I  will  learn  to  love  to  make 
bargains ;  accounts,  price  currents,  invoices, 
shall  be  dear  to  me ;  arid  all  the  cheating  I 
see,  I  will  forgive,  for  your  sake." 

A  few  days  afterwards,  Edward  informed 
Amy  that  he  had  made  a  final  settlement 
with  his  creditors.  His  affairs  had  turned 
out  better  than  he  had  feared.  He  had  been 
able  to  pay  seventy-five  cents  on  a  dollar, 
and  had  received  a  full  release  from  all  fur7 
ther  claims.  He  then  told  her  that  he  had 
resolved  to  accept  a  very  advantageous  pro 
posal,  which  had  been  made  to  him,  to  go  to 


68  SKETCHES    OF 

China;  that  he  might  be  gone  two  years, 
perhaps  more  ;  but  that  he  trusted  that  he 
should  return  with  such  a  fortune  as  would 
enable  them  to  be  married. 

Poor  Amy !  It  was  now  Edward's  turn 
to  teach  resignation  and  hope.  He  who 
makes  a  brave  and  cheerful  sacrifice  to  duty, 
always  seems  to  acquire  a  new  power  of  en 
durance —  a  self-supporting  energy,  that  di 
rectly  transforms  him  into  the  comforter  of 
those  for  whom  he  devotes  himself. 

"  And  it  is  for  me,  Edward,  that  you  are 
leaving  your  country,  your  home ;  it  is  for 
me  that  you  are  risking  your  health,  your 
life." 

"It  is  for  myself,"  replied  Edward.  "  I 
have  no  true  happiness,  till  you  are  my  wife. 
It  is  for  myself;  for  I  have  no  home,  till  you 
are  its  guardian  angel." 

When  Edward  told  Mr.  Weston  of  his 
determination,  he  expressed  his  approbation 
in  more  decided  terms  than  it  was  his  habit 
to  do.  "  It  seems,"  he  said,  "  to  promise 
well.  Some  of  our  first  men  have  made 
their  fortupes  in  this  way.  Your  engage 
ment  to  my  daughter  is  unfortunate." 

Poor  Edward  writhed  under  the  torture  of 
listening  to  this  and  a  few  more  remarks  of 


MARRIED    LIFE.  69 

the  same  sort,  and,  after  a  short  silence,  said, 
"  I  sail  to-morrow,  sir.  I  hope,  if  my  life  is 
spared,  that,  on  my  return,  I  shall  find  you 
well  and  happy,  and,  if  I  should  be  success 
ful,  that  you  will"  —  he  hesitated — "look 
upon  me  with  more  favorable  eyes  than  you 
do  at  present." 

He  rose  to  depart.  The  world  had  left  a 
little  piece  of  Mr.  Weston's  heart  unspoiled. 
He  was  touched  at  the  thought  of  the  sacri 
fice  Edward  was  making  —  at  the  thought  of 
that  if  which  involves  the  question  of  life 
and  death ;  he  remembered  his  late  coldness 
and  neglect ;  for  once,  he  forgot  the  opinion 
of  the  world,  and,  without  consulting  the 
wisest  and  best,  he  reached  out  his  hand  to 
Edward,  and  said,  "  God  bless  you !  " 

There  was  little  conversation  between 
Edward  and  Amy,  the  last  evening  they 
passed  together.  O,  those  sad  words  —  "  the 
last !  "  With  what  a  leaden  weight  do  the 
minutes  seem  to  press  on  our  hearts,  when 
their  number  can  be  counted  before  that  shall 
arrive  which  parts  us  from  one  who  is  dearer 
to  us  than  life  !  We  cannot  —  we  dare  not 
describe  the  parting  between  Amy  and  Ed 
ward.  Such  scenes  are  too  holy  for  any  but 
angels  to  look  upon. 


70  SKETCHES    OF 

Amy's  wakeful  eye  caught  the  first  streak 
of  early  dawn,  the  next  morning.  If  the 
wind  was  favorable,  the  vessel  was  to  sail. 
We  have  never  understood  the  full  power  of 
the  sound  of  the  wind,  if  we  have  not  heard 
it  at  the  moment  when  its  invisible  wings 
are  bearing  the  object  of  an  intense  love  far, 
far  away.  It  seemed,  this  morning,  as  if  it 
breathed  on  Amy's  very  soul,  as  it  rose  in 
prayer  to  God  for  a  blessing  on  him  she 
loved. 

"  What  way  is  the  wind  ? "  she  inquired 
of  Ruth,  who  entered  softly,  to  make  her 
fire  before  she  rose. 

"  Due  west,  ma'am ;  not  a  cloud  as  big  as 
my  hand  in  the  whole  sky." 

Amy  sighed  heavily. 

"  Cheer  up,  Miss  Amy ;  God  is  where  he 
was.  Mr.  Edward  will  be  taken  good  care 
of,  depend  upon  it  —  he's  acted  so  honorably." 

These  simple  words  from  the  kind-hearted 
Ruth  seemed  to  do  Amy  good.  She  rose 
and  dressed  herself,  and  made  an  effort  to 
appear  at  the  morning  meal,  and  pour  out  her 
father's  coffee  with  something  of  her  usual 
cheerfulness.  Even  Mr.  Weston  appreciated 
this  little  sacrifice  to  duty ;  for,  after  break 
fast,  he  said  to  her,  with  great  tenderness, 


MARRIED    LIFE.  71 

"  Edward  has  a  fair  wind,  my  child,  and  his 
prospects  are  very  good.  I  like  his  spirit." 

Little  as  this  may  seem,  it  was  a  great 
deal  to  Amy,  and  strengthened  her  in  her 
resolution  to  seek  for  consolation,  during  her 
separation  from  Edward,  in  a  more  active 
performance  of  duty,  let  that  duty  be  what  it 
might. 

While  they  were  at  breakfast,  Jerry  ar 
rived,  and  inquired  for  Ruth. 

"  O  dear !  "  groaned  out  Jerry,  as  soon  as 
he  saw  Ruth. 

"  What 's  the  matter  now,  Jerry  ?  and 
where  did  you  come  from  ?  " 

"  Why,  I  have  just  come  in  from  father's 
farm,  and  I  feel  so  ugly  about  Mr.  Selmar's 
going  away." 

"  And  so  do  I,"  replied  Ruth,  "  and  so 
does  other  folks ;  but  what 's  the  use  of  talk 
ing  of  it  ?  It 's  fetching  tow  to  put  out  the 
fire  with." 

"  Well,  this  I  know,"  said  Jerry ;  "  I  have 
been  as  faithful  to  him  as  I  knew  how." 

"Nobody  says  you  have  not,  Jerry;  but 
self-praise  goes  but  little  ways.  Do  n't  yon 
want  some  breakfast  ?  " 

As  Ruth  said  this,  she  placed  a  chair  at 
the  breakfast  table  for  him.  Jerry  seated 


72  SKETCHES    OF 

himself,  saying,  as  he  did  so,  "  Why,  I  do  n't 
know  but  I  do  want  some  breakfast ;  for  I 
have  nothing  in  my  stomach  but  my  sins." 

"  No  wonder  you  groan  so  dreadfully,"  said 
Ruth.  "  But  what  did  you  want  of  me, 
Jerry  ? " 

"  Why,  you  see,  Ruth,  I  have  got  an  idea 
in  my  head." 

"  Have  you,  Jerry  ?  Better  keep  it  there, 
and  make  the  most  of  it,  as  a  sort  of  nest-egg." 

"  Come,  Ruth,  you  are  too  hard  upon  me, 
considering  I  have  had  no  breakfast  yet." 

After  Jerry  had  done  his  best  to  remedy 
this  difficulty,  he  said  to  Ruth,  "  I  want  to 
know,  Ruth,  if  you  think  Miss  Amy  would 
really  like  Robinette  ?  " 

"  I  do  n't  know,  and  I  do  n't  want  to  know 
anything  about  it,"  replied  Ruth,  very  crusti 
ly.  "  I  sha'  n't  meddle  nor  make  with  other 
folks'  business  again  in  a  hurry,  you  may 
depend  upon  it.  He  that  goes  out  after 
wool,  comes  home  shorn  ;  "  and  Ruth  flaunt 
ed  out  of  the  room,  as  she  said  this. 

Jerry,  however,  was  not  to  be  so  easily 
discouraged.  He  was  too  well  pleased  with 
having  an  idea,  to  part  with  it  till  he  had 
made  some  use  of  it.  When  he  had  finished 
his  repast,  he  asked  leave  to  see  Mr.  Weston. 


MARRIED    LIFE.  73 

"  What  is  your  business  with  me  ? "  said 
Mr.  Weston,  as  Jerry  entered. 

"  Why,  you  see,  sir,"  said  Jerry,  turning 
his  hat  round  and  round,  and  picking  off 
every  little  scrap  of  dust  he  could  discover 
on  it,  "  you  see,  sir,  it 's  about  Robinette. 
My  father,  in  the  country,  keeps  horses  ;  and 
when  he  found  I  had  Robinette  to  sell,  he 
bought  him ;  and  I  got  him  to  say,  that  if  I 
was  ever  able  to  lay  down  the  cash  for  him, 
he  'd  let  me  take  him  at  the  same  price,  with 
a  trifle  to  boot  for  keeping." 

"  Well,  Jerry,  what  of  that  ?  " 

"  Why,  sir,  when  I  heard  that  Mr.  Selmar 
was  going  away,  I  thought  that,  considering 
how  things  are,  you  would,  may-be,  like  to 
make  a  trade  with  me." 

"  I  suppose  you  mean  buy  him,  Jerry." 

"  Why,  yes,  sir,  that 's  my  idea ;  and  I 
can  tell  you  that  he 's  as  good  a  horse  as 
ever  snapped  ;  and  I  kind  o'  guess  Miss  Amy 
would  set  more  by  him  than  any  other  horse." 

Mr.  Weston's  heart  was  somewhat  tender 
at  the  moment,  and  he  resolved  to  purchase 
the  horse  for  Amy.  He  agreed  to  pay  Jerry 
his  price,  and  desired  him  to  bring  Robinette 
on  the  1st  of  January,  which  was  at  hand, 
but  desired  Jerry  to  say  nothing  about  it. 


74  SKETCHES    OF   MARRIED    LIFE. 

Jerry  went  out  exulting,  and  snapping  his 
fingers  at  Ruth  with  great  glee. 

"  What  has  happened  ? "  asked  Ruth. 
"Has  Mr.  Weston  taken  the  horse?" 

"  You  remember,"  said  Jerry,  "  that  this  is 
none  of  your  business.  I  can  keep  a  secret 
as  well  as  you,  Ruth." 

"  Your  being  so  tickled  does  not  argue 
that  Miss  Amy  is  going  to  have  Robinette," 
replied  Ruth.  "  A  little  pot  is  soon  hot.  I 
would  not  give  much  for  your  secret." 

Jerry  ran  off.  It  was  his  only  chance  for 
safety  from  Ruth's  tongue. 


CHAPTER  VII. 


1  The  heart  that  feels  for  others'  woes 
Shall  feel  each  selfish  sorrow  less  ; 
His  breast  who  happiness  bestows 
Reflected  happiness  shall  bless." 

ARMINE  AND  ELVIRA. 


THE  resolution  which  Amy  had  formed 
the  morning  her  lover  sailed,  to  seek  for 
consolation  during  his  absence  in  a  more 
active  performance  of  duty,  did  not  pass 
away  with  that  intense  feeling  of  loss,  that 
sense  of  utter  desolation,  which  pressed  upon 
her  heart  at  the  time  she  made  it,  and  which 
happily  for  us  cannot  be  an  enduring  state  of 
mind. 

Fidelity  to  duty  was  no  new  thing  to  her  ; 
but  Amy  had  made  progress  in  her  notions  of 
what  duty  was.  To  attend  faithfully  and 
with  a  cheerful  spirit  to  her  father's  house 
hold,  to  be  his  companion  and  friend,  as  far 
as  the  great  dissimilarity  of  their  characters 
allowed,  to  promote  the  interest  and  welfare 
as  far  as  she  could  of  every  individual  of  the 


76 


SKETCHES    OF 


house,  all  this  was  so  natural  and  easy,  that 
it  no  longer  required  an  effort ;  neither  did 
she  neglect  her  duties  to  herself,  to  her  own 
mind ;  but  Edward's  example  had  kindled  in 
her  heart  a  higher  ambition  than  she  had 
ever  before  felt.  There  was  stirring  in  Amy's 
soul,  that  feeling  of  discontent,  which  is  eve 
the  first  motion  towards  the  attainment  of  a 
higher  degree  of  excellence  than  we  have  yet 
reached.  She  had  hitherto  been  in  the  habit 
of  giving  a  portion  of  the  money  she  had  at 
her  own  disposal,  to  those  who  had  the  care 
of  the  poor,  to  be  employed  by  them  for 
their  benefit.  She  now  resolved  to  be  her 
own  almoner,  and  to  exercise  that  higher 
charity  which  bids  us  give  our  time,  our 
thoughts,  our  active  sympathy  to  the  poor. 
Amy  soon  found  that  this  kept  in  exercise 
all  the  best  faculties  of  her  mind,  and  called 
upon  her  for  continual  sacrifices.  She  was 
obliged  to  practise  the  strictest  economy  both 
of  time  and  money,  in  order  not  to  neglect 
any  of  her  duties  at  home,  and  to  have 
enough  to  give  to  the  needy.  In  order  to  be 
a  good  adviser  to  the  poor,  she  was  obliged  to 
think  of  all  their  circumstances  and  relative 
duties  and  rights.  Religion  became  to  her 
mind  a  more  deep,  and  intense,  and  affecting 


MARRIED    LIFE. 


reality  than  it  had  ever  before  been,  when 
she  was  called  upon  to  give  consolation  to 
those  who,  in  the  depths  of  human  misery, 
and  bereft  of  all  outward  comforts,  had  lost 
their  faith,  and  cried  out  in  the  agony  of  their 
souls  "  Where  now  is  my  hope  ?  "  All  this 
called  upon  Amy  for  constant  and  strenuous 
effort :  she  was  often  wearied,  but  never  dis 
couraged  ;  disappointed,  but  riot  disheartened. 
She  made  mistakes,  but  she  was  patient  with 
herself  as  she  was  with  others,  and  even  from 
her  errors  extracted  useful  lessons ;  and  she 
never  allowed  any  difficulty  or  failure  to  dis 
turb  her  faith  or  her  good  humor. 

Mr.  Weston  had  noticed  that  Amy  was  less 
interested  than  she  had  ever  before  been  in 
parties  and  amusements  ;  but  he  attributed  it 
to  Edward's  absence.  She  soon  had  an  op 
portunity  of  ascertaining  how  little  sympathy 
or  aid  she  might  expect  from  him  in  her  pres 
ent  pursuits. 

"  Father,"  she  said  one  morning  at  break 
fast,  "  I  want  your  assistance  in  a  little  plan 
that  I  have  much  at  heart." 

"  What  is  it,  my  daughter  ?  " 

"  I  know  of  a  number  of  poor  women,  who 
cannot  go  out  to  labor  for  the  support  of  their 
families,  because  they  cannot  leave  their 


78  SKETCHES    OF 

children ;  now  I  want  to  find  a  competent 
person,  who  will  take  the  charge  of  these 
little  children  for  a  few  hours  of  every  day, 
instruct  them  and  make  them  happy.  In 
order  that  the  teacher  of  this  infant  school 
should  he  well  paid,  my  funds  must  be  con 
siderably  enlarged ;  and  if  you  think  it 
proper,  I  would  like  to  have  some  aid  from 
you,  father." 

"  I  have  great  doubts  about  such  institu 
tions,  Amy." 

"  What  are  your  objections,  father  ?  " 

"  In  the  first  place,  I  much  doubt  the  ex 
pediency  of  teaching  the  poor ;  it  makes 
them  discontented." 

"  But,  father,  most  of  them  are  babies, 
what  they  learn  cannot  harm  them,  if  knowl 
edge  were  ever  so  dangerous ;  the  principal 
object  is  to  enable  their  mothers  to  work  for 
their  support.  You  know  not,  dear  father, 
what  the  poor  suffer ;  I  have  been  among 
them,  and  I  know  what  they  endure." 

"  Let  me  tell  you,  Amy,  that  I  do  not  ap 
prove  of  your  going  among  the  poor  ;  you  are 
in  danger  of  taking  some  disease ;  it  is  not  a 
proper  employment  for  a  young  lady  in  your 
station  of  life,  and  with  your  prospects.  This 
duty,  if  it  be  one,  should  be  left  to  those  who 
are  nearer  their  own  level." 


MARRIED    LIFE.  79 

"  I  should  be  sorry,  father,  to  leave  to  the 
poor  all  the  luxury  of  doing  good.  If  you 
had  been  with  me,  sometimes  when  I  have 
had  the  happiness  to  lessen  some  of  their 
sorrows,  you  would  not  wonder  that  I  take 
the  pleasure  I  do  in  visiting  them.  Oh, 
father,  I  have  witnessed  such  gentle  patience 
under  acute  pain,  such  calm  faith,  such  holy 
trust  under  the  severest  trials  —  " 

"  I  always  avoid  such  scenes,"  replied  her 
father;  "Providence  has  taken  care  of  me 
and  mine,  and  I  am  grateful.  As  I  could  not 
therefore  be  a  good  counsellor  to  those  who 
suffer,  and  as  my  nerves  are  too  weak  to  bear 
the  sight  of  misery,  I  keep  out  of  the  way  of 
such  things." 

"  But.  would  it  not  be  well,  father,  to  save 
these  little  children  from  suffering,  if  we 
could  ?  " 

"  Where  are  the  fathers  of  these  children  ? 
Why  do  not  their  fathers  support  them  ?  " 

"  Some  of  them  are  dead,  some  are  worse 
than  dead — vicious;  others  are  absent,  and 
others  are  incapacitated  for  labor  by  disease." 

"  You  are  meddling,  Amy,  with  things  out 
of  the  sphere  of  a  young  lady's  walk  of  life  ; 
the  wisest  and  best  have  agreed  that  the  poor 
ought  not  to  marry.  All  the  cases  you  have 


80  SKETCHES    OF 

stated  are  the  necessary  results  of  the  present 
vicious  state  of  things  :  it  is  only  interfering 
with  the  wise  designs  of  Providence,  to  at 
tempt  to  prevent  the  natural  consequences 
and  legitimate  punishment  of  what  should 
never  have  existed.  Poverty,  my  daughter, 
would  die  out  of  itself,  but  for  the  mistaken 
efforts  of  benevolent  enthusiasts.  I  make  it 
a  matter  of  conscience  to  do  nothing  towards 
perpetuating  vice  and  misery ;  the  public 
good  requires  it,  I  owe  this  to  the  station  I 
hold  in  society." 

Amy  still  continued  her  hopeless  appeal  to 
her  father's  heart. 

"  Did  not  Jesus,  father,  preach  particularly 
to  the  poor  ?  Were  not  his  instructions  par 
ticularly  calculated  to  elevate  the  poor  ?  " 

"  So  far  from  it,  my  daughter,  that  his  in 
structions  were,  I  think,  intended  to  make 
them  quiet  and  submissive  under  all  the 
trials  of  life.  Jesus  was  careful  never  to 
meddle  with  any  of  the  existing  relations  of 
society,  even  that  most  abject  poverty  where 
a  man  does  not  possess  his  own  body  —  even 
slavery.  Wise  and  pious  men  think  it  sanc 
tioned  by  the  conduct  and  teachings  of  Jesus 
Christ." 

Mr.  Weston  had  fairly  talked  himself  into 


MARRIED    LIFE.  81 

a  conviction  that  he  was  the  true,  and  Amy 
the  mistaken  philanthropist ;  and  he  actually 
felt  an  increase  of  self-satisfaction  from  the 
conversation.  Amy  shuddered  at  the  cold- 
hearted  sophistry  of  her  father's  arguments, 
and  this  utter  perversion  of  the  religion  of 
Jesus.  She  tried  to  persuade  herself  he  had 
blindly  adopted  these  heartless  views  upon 
the  authority  of  others.  She  would  have 
attempted  to  vindicate  Providence,  and  the 
friend  and  Saviour  of  man  from  the  false 
charge  of  approving  of  evils  which  are  caused 
by  the  imperfect  institutions  and  selfish  pas 
sions  of  men ;  but  her  father's  manner  con 
vinced  her  that  he  was  inaccessible  to  any 
arguments  that  were  not  sanctioned  by  the 
opinion  of  the  world.  "  I  know,"  thought 
Amy,  "  to  whom  I  can  go,  and  who  will 
gladly  help  me  with  their  money  and  their 
sympathy."  With  these  thoughts  in  her 
mind  Amy  endeavored  on  her  way  to  her 
cousin's  house  to  chase  away  the  painful  im 
pressions  which  her  conversation  with  her 
father  had  occasioned.  She  found  Fanny  at 
home,  and  alone,  and  rejoiced  to  see  her. 
"  Roberts,"  said  Fanny,  "  has  gone  to  take 
a  long  walk  into  the  country  with  a  friend, 
and  I  told  him  that  I  should  be  revenged 
6 


82  SKETCHES    OF 

upon  him  for  leaving  me  at  home,  and  alone, 
all  this  morning,  by  being  very  happy  without 
him ;  and  you  have  come  just  in  right  time 
to  help  me  keep  my  vow." 

"  I  am  sorry  he  is  not  at  home,"  said  Amy, 
"  for  I  wanted  that  he  as  well  as  you  should 
engage  with  me  in  a  little  project  I  have  at 
heart." 

As  soon  as  Amy  had  told  Fanny  her 
plans,  and  before  she  had  given  half  her  rea 
sons  in  favor  of  them,  Fanny's  purse  was  in 
her  hand  and  open. 

"  Tell  me  what  to  give,  my  dear ;  you 
know  I  have  no  other  use  for  money  than 
spending  it.  Take  what  you  want,  and  do 
what  you  will  with  it ;  1  only  stipulate  for 
one  regulation  in  your  school." 

"  What  is  that,  Fanny  ?  " 

"  That  the  first  efforts  for  the  improvement 
of  the  children  should  be  devoted  exclusively 
to  the  outside.  Please  my  dear,  to  lay  out 
my  money  for  tubs,  and  brushes,  and  soap, 
and  sponges ;  let  the  little  brats  be  all  but 
drowned  and  flayed  alive  the  first  day  they 
enter  the  school ;  and,  as  you  value  my  friend 
ship,  do  not  put  either  of  your  nice  little 
hands  upon  one  of  the  little  dirty  horrors  till 
this  operation  is  duly  performed.  I  should 


MARRIED    LIFE.  OO 

like  to  endow  a  washing  establishment  for 
all  the  dirty  babies  in  the  country." 

Amy  promised  that  this  should  be  properly 
attended  to.  "  But  Fanny,"  she  said,  "  you 
must  go  with  me  and  see  my  school  when  it 
is  established." 

"  Certainly,"  replied  Fanny  ;  "  I  presume 
that  your  prime  minister,  Ruth,  will  keep 
proper  dresses  for  visiters  as  they  do  at 
Niagara  for  those  who  go  behind  the  falls  ?  " 

"  I  was  not  aware  that  any  peculiar  dress 
was  necessary,"  said  Amy  laughing. 

"  Oh  yes,"  replied  Fanny ;  "  One  ought  to 
wear  a  drab  colored  English  merino  pelisse  or 
gown,  an  old  Leghorn  bonnet  with  an  ash 
colored  ribbon  on  it,  and  a  green  old  barege 
veil,  dark  cotton  stockings,  with  large  India 
rubber  shoes,  loose  cotton  gloves  with  the 
ends  of  the  fingers  hanging  over,  a  shiny  look 
ing  black  silk  bag  with  a  steel  clasp,  and 
chain  swinging  on  your  arm ;  and  on  rainy 
days  a  blue  cotton  umbrella,  or,  as  Ruth  calls 
it,  an  amberill :  this  dress  is  essential  for  a 
visit  to  a  charity  school." 

"  Come,  come,  Fanny !  more  harm  is  done 
to  a  good  cause  by  ridicule  than  by  pos 
itive  abuse ;  you  shall  not  laugh  at  my 
school." 


84  SKETCHES    OF 

"  But,  Amy,  1  mean  to  share  the  ridicule 
with  you ;  I  know  that  we  shall  be  laughed 
at,  but  I  mean  to  have  my  share  of  the  sport. 
Let  me  see  your  list  of  subscribers.  It  seems 
to  me,  Amy,  that  you  have  not  got  the  names 
of  the  wisest  and  best ;  more  sinners  than 
saints  on  your  list.  Where  shall  I  put  down 
my  name,  among  the  goats,  or  the  sheep,  or, 
as  Mr.  Skinner  says,  promiscuously  as  it 
were  ? " 

"  Oh  Fanny,  you  are  as  full  of  mischief  as 
ever;  I  did  hope  being  married  would  im 
prove  you." 

"  That  is  an  obsolete  notion,  Amy.  The 
march  of  mind  has  discovered  that  matri 
mony  is  to  character  what  the  alum  or 
some  other  chemical  preparation  which  the 
dyers  use  to  set  their  colors,  is  to  cloth.  This 
is  the  philosophical  meaning  of  the  yankee 
phrase,  '  being  fixed  down,  or  settled  in 
life.' " 

Amy  observed  that  while  Fanny  was 
rattling  on  she  was  preparing  to  put  down 
her  name  among  her  subscribers.  She  took 
hold  of  her  hand  gently  as  she  said,  "  Keep 
the  paper,  dear,  and  show  it  to  your  husband. 
I  would  rather  you  would  consult  him  first  ; 
he  may  not  approve,  you  know. 


MARRIED    LIFE.  OO 

Fanny  colored  slightly,  and  answered,  — 
"He  always  lets  me  do  as  I  please  about 
such  things ;  why  should  I  show  it  to  him  ?  " 

"  But  would  he  not  therefore  be  the  more 
pleased  to  have  you  consult  him  ?  I  should 
be  glad  to  know  his  opinion,  and  have  his 
counsel.  Keep  the  paper,  dear,  and  send  it 
to  me  when  you  have  done  with  it." 

There  was  a  short  silence  ;  then  a  little 
more  chat,  and  the  cousins  parted.  Mr. 
Roberts  returned  from  his  walk  with  that 
indescribable  glow  of  health  and  spirits  which 
nothing  but  exercise  in  the  open  air  can 
give.  It  was  just  the  dinner  hour ;  but  Fanny 
had  been  looking  for  him  for  some  minutes. 

"  Well,  my  dear  Fanny,"  he  said,  "  have 
you  kept  your  word,  and  been  very  happy  all 
this  morning  ? " 

"  Yes,  "she  replied,  "  I  have  been  unusually 
happy  ;  my  friend  Amy  has  been  with  me  ; 
I  always  enjoy  her  society."  As  she  said 
this,  she  rang  the  bell  and  ordered  the  dinner 
to  be  brought  in.  There  was  an  emphasis 
on  the  words  "unusually,"  and  "always," 
which  grated  a  little  on  her  husband's  feel 
ings  ;  but  he  made  an  effort  to  forget  it,  and 
said,  with  rather  a  forced  laugh,  —  "I  trust 
you  will  not  carry  your  revenge  so  far  as  to 
be  sorry  I  have  returned." 


86 


SKETCHES    OF 


"  Wives,"  said  Fanny,  "  must  always  be 
glad  to  see  their  lords  and  masters,  come 
when  they  may." 

Mr.  Roberts  made  no  reply  ;  the  tone  of 
his  spirits  fell  even  below  their  usual  level. 
He  was  silent  and  dull  during  dinner,  and 
immediately  after,  took  the  newspaper.  Fan 
ny's  heart  was  troubled ;  she  was  conscious 
that  she  had  given  her  husband  pain  ;  but 
she  tried  to  persuade  herself  that  he  was 
too  sensitive,  instead  of  frankly  confessing 
that  she  had  done  wrong.  Roberts  was  too 
proud  to  say  he  was  hurt  at  her  manner. 
Presently  Fanny  remembered  the  subscrip 
tion  paper  for  Amy's  school. 

"If,"  said  she,  "you  could  lay  aside  your 
paper  one  moment,  I  have  something  I  want 
to  speak  of  with  you.  There  is  a  little 
charitable  project  of  Amy's,  which  I  should 
be  glad  to  assist  her  in,  if  you  approve  of  it." 

Fanny  meant  to  say  just  the  right  thing  ; 
but  there  was  an  overstrained  respect  in  her 
tone,  a  precision  of  manner  that  her  husband 
felt  was  disagreeable,  and  her  eifort  failed  to 
restore  him  to  a  cheerful  state  of  mind. 

"  I  will  attend  to  it,"  he  replied,  "  as  soon 
as  I  have  finished  reading  these  debates  in 
congress." 


MARRIED    LITE.  87 

Fanny  now  thought  that  she  was  the 
aggrieved  party,  and,  drawing  a  long  sigh,  she 
took  up  a  book,  and  was  soon  apparently 
absorbed  in  its  contents.  Mr.  Roberts  finish 
ed  what  he  was  reading,  and,  looking  up,  saw 
his  young,  beautiful  and  lovely  wife  with  an 
expression  of  sadness  in  her  face.  He  thought 
he  was  foolish  to  have  noticed  such  a  trifle, 
and  that  after  all  it  was  only  Fanny's  way ; 
then  he  thought  of  his  want  of  courtesy  in 
not  attending  to  what  she  had  to  say  to  him, 
and  at  last  he  came  to  the  conclusion  that 
after  all  he  alone  was  to  blame.  He  seated 
himself  by  the  side  of  Fanny  in  the  sofa,  and 
said  to  her  in  the  most  affectionate  tone,  "  I 
fear,  my  dear  wife,  that  I  was  not  very  civil 
to  you ;  I  am  sorry  if  I  gave  you  pain ;  but 
you  hurt  me  a  little  by  your  tone  and  manner 
of  speaking  to  me  when  I  returned  from  my 
walk." 

"  What  did  I  say  ? "  replied  Fanny,  "  I  am 
unconscious  of  having  done  any  wrong.  " 

"  It  was  but  a  trifle,"  replied  her  husband, 
and  he  repeated  what  she  said,  and  tried  to 
imitate  her  tone. 

Fanny  denied  it.  "  My  heart,'1  she  said, 
"  would  have  forbidden  my  speaking  in  such 
a  way  to  you."  Her  husband  was  not  con- 


88  SKETCHES    OF 

vinced,  but  he  could  not  bear  any  further 
contention. 

"  Perhaps  I  was  mistaken,"  he  said  ;  "  let 
it  pass.  What  did  you  want  to  speak  of  with 
me?" 

Fanny  brought  the  paper,  and  told  him  of 
Amy's  school ;  but  her  husband's  mind  was 
otherwise  occupied. 

"  Do  just  as  you  please,  my  dear ;  I  dare 
say  if  Amy  and  you  approve  of  it,  it  is  a 
good  thing." 

Fanny  put  down  her  name  for  what  sum 
she  thought  proper,  and  this  trifle  as  they 
thought  it,  was  apparently  forgotten.  In  the 
course  of  the  evening  Fanny  sent  the  paper 
to  Amy,  and  wrote  on  the  envelope,  "  Mr. 
Roberts  entirely  approves  of  your  school.  I 
enclose  you  my  subscription." 

Amy  was  much  pleased  at  the  liberal  aid 
and  cordial  approbation  of  her  friends  in  her 
favorite  plan.  She  found  many  others  wil 
ling  to  assist  her  with  their  money,  or  in  any 
other  way  that  she  should  point  out.  She 
discovered  that  there  were  not  many  people 
who  held  her  father's  opinions  upon  the  sub 
ject  of  the  education  of  the  poor :  here  and 
there  she  met  with  a  loyal  conservative  of  the 
barbarous  times  which  he  represented,  stand- 


MARRIED    LIFE.  89 

ing  like  a  blighted  tree  among  the  green 
foliage  and  full  blossoming  branches  of  a 
more  genial,  a  more  hopeful  age. 

As  Fanny  had  supposed,  Ruth  was  a  great 
help  to  Amy  in  all  her  labors  of  charity.  If 
anything  was  to  be  sent  to  the  sick  or  the 
sorrowful,  Ruth  was  always  at  leisure  to  take 
it :  if  Amy  expressed  the  apprehension  lest 
she  were  too  much  fatigued  with  her  duties 
at  home  to  visit  the  poor,  she  would  answer, 
"  Kindness  will  creep,  ma'am,  where  it  can 
not  run  ;  what  good  I  can  do  will  never  hurt 
me." 

Soon  after  Amy's  school  was  established, 
she  went  to  pass  the  evening  at  her  cousin's. 
When  Mr.  Roberts  came  in,  she  said  to  him, 
"  I  have  been  wanting  to  tell  you  how  much 
pleased  I  am  that  you  approve  of  my  school, 
and  to  thank  you  for  your  very  liberal  aid." 

Mr.  Roberts  had  only  a  slight,  and  that  not 
a  very  agreeable  recollection,  of  what  Fanny 
had  said  to  him,  about  the  school,  and  did 
not  know  what  she  had  given. 

"  I  was  not  aware,"  he  said,  "  of  deserving 
your  thanks  ;  what  school  do  you  mean  ?  I 
doubt  not,  Amy,  I  shall  think  well  of  it,  if  it  is 
your  work." 

"I  thought,  Fanny,  that  you  wrote   me 


90  SKETCHES    OF 

word   that  your   husband  approved   of    my 
school." 

"  I  did  so,"  replied  Fanny,  "  and  he  cer 
tainly  said  that  he  did  ;  but  we  must  not  ex 
pect  men  who  are  so  entirely  occupied  with 
rail-roads,  and  silk-worms,  coal-mines,  and 
sugar-beets,  Swedish  turnips  and  steam-boats, 
to  think  of  such  common  things  as  dirty 
crying  children.  You  know  that  he  is  now 
engaged  in  public  improvements,  which,  if 
you  have  observed,  have  no  reference  to  the 
individual  good  of  human  beings.  On  they 
go,  these  public  improvers  like  their  own 
steam-engines,  running  over  blind  men  and 
pigs,  deaf  old  women  and  cows,  children  and 
geese  ;  and  the  best  you  can  hope  for  is,  that, 
out  of  common  mercy,  they  will  invent  a 
contrivance  by  which  they  can  catch  up 
whoever  is  in  their  way,  and  carry  him  off, 
nolens  volens,  nobody  knows  where.  If  your 
school  could  be  benefited  by  a  rail-road  to 
Chargoggagoggmanchoggagogg  Pond. I  advise 
you,  my  dear,  to  come  to  Mr.  Roberts  for 
assistance." 

Fanny  paused  here,  because  she  was  out  of 
breath ;  she  observed  that  her  husband  did 
not  much  relish  what  she  intended  for  sport, 
but  she  enjoyed  it  herself  too  well  to  stop 


MARRIED    LIFE.  91 

even  for  his  sake.  She  continued, —  "  I  heard, 
the  other  day,  of  one  poor  fellow  who  ven 
tured  on  the  top  of  a  rail-road  car  which  went 
at  such  a  rate  that  when  he  stopped,  and 
happened  to  look  in  the  glass,  he  discovered 
that  he  had  lost  his  wig,  nose,  and  teeth  on 
the  road." 

"  What  nonsense,  Fanny  !  come  be  serious, 
I  want  to  tell  Mr.  Roberts  how  well  my 
school  succeeds.  It  is  your  fault,  I  doubt  not, 
that  he  knows  nothing  of  it." 

"  When  did  you  ever  speak  of  it  ?  "  asked 
her  husband. 

"  The  day,"  replied  Fanny,  "  when  you 
and  Mr.  Elton  walked  out  to  Brookline  and 
returned  so  late  to  dinner." 

"  I  remember  it  all  now  ;  "  said  Mr.  Rob 
erts,  "  I  believe,  however.  I  was  in  season 
for  dinner."  A  slight  shade  came  over  his 
face  as  he  spoke. 

"  I  do  n't  think  I  looked  at  the  paper  at 
all,  or  knew  what  Fanny  subscribed.  I  felt 
sure  that  if  it  was  a  plan  of  yours,  Amy,  I 
should  like  it,  and  that  whatever  money 
Fanny  gave  for  that  objact  would  be  well 
spent." 

There  was  an  emphasis  upon  the  last  part 
of  this  remark ;  for  Mr.  Roberts  had  lately 


92  SKETCHES    OF 

thought  his  wife  foolishly  and  wastefully 
extravagant  in  her  expenses,  and  he  had 
once  intended  to  say  so ;  but  his  remem 
brance  of  the  pain  he  felt,  at  the  little  mis 
understanding  we  have  before  mentioned, 
made  him  unwilling  to  speak,  lest  Fanny 
should  be  displeased.  Unconsciously,  the 
smothered  disapprobation  he  had  felt  towards 
his  wife  had  affected  the  whole  tone  of  his 
remarks,  and  gave  them  the  appearance  of  a 
decided  censure.  Fanny  felt  it  deeply,  and 
was  much  irritated. 

"  I  well  know,"  she  said,  "  that  Amy  is  a 
far  better  judge  of  every  thing  than  I  am. 
Suppose,  my  dear,  we  let  her  plan  all  our 
proceedings ;  and  suppose  that,  in  order  that 
all  your  money  should  be  well  spent,  you 
keep  the  purse  altogether  to  yourself ;  and  I 
will  come  to  you,  when  I  want  a  paper  of 
pins,  and  say,  Please,  Mr.  Roberts,  give  me  a 
quarter  of  a  dollar,  to  buy  me  some  pins." 

All  this  was  said  with  a  forced  laugh ;  but 
any  one,  who  understood  Fanny's  face,  might 
see  that  it  was  only  a  strong  effort  of  pride, 
that  kept  her  from  bursting  into  tears.  Mr. 
Roberts  felt  he  had  been  unjust  and  unkind 
to  his  wife ;  he  saw  how  deeply  he  had  hurt 
her ;  he  knew,  that  if  he  thought  her  extrav- 


MARRIED    LIFE.  93 

agant  in  her  expenses,  he  ought  to  have  told 
her  of  it  at  another  time,  and  in  another  way. 
He  was  angry  with  himself;  he  wanted  to 
say  this  to  her,  but  how  could  he  before 
another  person  ? 

Poor  Amy  knew  not  what  to  say.  She 
felt  that  she  was  in  the  way  ;  but  what  could 
she  do  ?  Presently  she  said,  "  Fanny,  dear, 
you  promised  to  visit  my  school.  If  Mr. 
Roberts  be  at  leisure,  I  shall  expect  you  both 
to-morrow." 

By  this  time,  they  had  recovered  their 
self-possession,  and  Mr.  Roberts  said  he 
would  gladly  come. 

The  remainder  of  the  evening  passed  off 
heavily,  in  spite  of  some  unsuccessful  efforts 
which  Mr.  Roberts  made  to  entertain  Amy. 
There  was  wanting  that  most  essential  charm 
in  an  intercourse  between  friends  —  frank- 
hearted  truth,  and  a  fearless  expression  of  it. 

As  soon  as  they  were  alone,  Mr.  Roberts 
said  to  Fanny,  "  My  dear  wife,  how  could  I 
give  you  so  much  pain  ?  I  know  not  what 
possessed  me.  I  did  not  think  of  the  con 
struction  that  might  be  put  upon  what  I  said." 

Fanny  could  only  answer  by  her  tears. 
At  last,  when  she  was  able  to  speak,  she 
said,  "  What  could  induce  you,  William,  to 


94 


SKETCHES    OF 


speak  as  you  did  ?  If  you  have  thought  me 
extravagant  about  money,  why  not  tell  me 
so?" 

Mr.  Roberts  had  not  the  courage  to  be  true 
to  himself  and  to  his  wife,  and  tell  her  all  he 
had  thought  and  felt.  He  answered  in  a 
hurried  and  evasive  manner. 

"  I  do  n't  know  what  made  me  so  irritable, 
my  dear  Fanny.  Spend  money  as  you  please, 
only  forgive  and  love  me.  I  cannot  forgive 
myself  for  having  caused  you  so  much  pain, 
you  must  think  me  so  very  unkind." 

"  Let  it  all  be  forgotten,"  said  Fanny.  "  I 
knew  that  you  could  not  be  really  unkind. 
I  was  wrong  for  feeling  so  much  about  it." 

They  both  agreed  that  they  would  avoid 
such  painful  subjects  for  the  future. 

Amy  was  rejoiced,  when  her  friends  came 
to  fulfil  their  engagement  the  next  morning, 
to  see  that  harmony  was  restored  between 
them.  They  seemed,  she  thought,  even 
more  than  usually  attentive  and  affectionate 
in  their  manner  towards  each  other.  When 
Amy  was  exhibiting  her  school  to  Mr.  Rob 
erts,  she  called  his  attention  to  her  nice  wash 
room  for  the  children.  There  were  tubs, 
and  basins,  and  all  proper  washing  apparatus, 
nicely  arranged ;  and  the  appearance  of  the 


. 

MARRIED    LIFE.  95 

*4 

children  testified  to  their  proper  application. 
Mr.  Roberts  expressed  his  particular  approba 
tion  of  this  part  of  the  establishment. 

"  Come  here,  Fanny,"  he  said  to  his  wife  • 
"  come  and  praise  Amy  for  her  faithful  atten 
tion  to  this  most  essential  means  of  elevating 
and  improving  the  poor.  See  what  a  com 
plete  washing  apparatus  she  has  for  them." 

"  This  is  your  wife's  doings,"  said  Amy. 
"She  stipulated  that  the  money  she  gave 
should  be  used  for  this  purpose.  It  is  her 
good  judgment  you  must  praise." 

Roberts  looked  pleased,  and  Fanny  was 
touched  by  Amy's  thoughtful  kindness. 
They  saw  the  children  go  through  all  their 
various  exercises ;  then  the  babies  put  to 
bed,  to  take  their  morning  nap,  and  the 
larger  children  let  out  into  the  play-ground, 
and  heard  their  merry  voices  at  play. 

"  Every  morning,"  said  Amy,  "  the  teacher 
gives  them  a  short  lesson  in  religion  and 
morals,  by  means  of  familiar  anecdotes  and 
simple  stories.  Our  great  object  is  to  teach 
the  children  to  speak  their  own  thoughts, 
and  lay  open  their  own  minds,  in  order  that, 
knowing  their  peculiarities  and  wants,  the 
right  instruction  may  be  given  them.  We 
never  allow  any  spectators  at  that  time ;  for 


96  SKETCHES    OF    MARRIED    LIFE. 

we  consider  their  religious  sentiments  and 
their  childish  confidence  as  sacred,  and  that 
it  would  be  a  breach  of  faith  to  exhibit  them ; 
to  say  nothing  of  the  danger  of  making  them 
hypocrites  or  egotists." 

"  The  only  objection  I  have  to  make  to 
your  school,  Amy,"  said  Fanny,  as  they 
were  walking  home,  "  is,  that  the  schoolmis 
tress  has  in  her  hand  no  birch  rod,  held  up 
perpendicularly  before  her  face,  as  a  whole 
some  terror  to  the  little  evil-doers.  How 
came  you  not  to  bring  them  up  in  the  good 
old  way  in  which  the  wisest  and  best  were 
educated?  Besides,  you  have  not  taught 
them  to  make  their  manners  to  you  every 
time  you  speak  to  them,  as  aunt  Hetty  used 
to  tell  me  I  ought  to.  You  are  a  radical, 
after  all." 


CHAPTER  VIII. 


"  And  forward  though  I  canna  see, 

I  guess  an  fear."  BURNS. 


THUS  did  Amy  pass  the  first  year  of  her 
lover's  absence,  exacting  from  the  hours,  as 
they  passed,  a  tribute  of  happy  recollections. 
She  performed  all  her  duties  to  her  father 
with  such  cheerful  exactness,  that  he  could 
find  no  fault  with  her.  She  did  not  neglect 
any  of  the  just  claims  of  society.  She  read, 
she  studied,  she  thought,  more  than  she  ever 
had  before.  All  her  faculties  seemed  to  be 
ripening  under  the  influence  of  the  pure  and 
elevated  love  which  had  awakened  her  soul 
to  its  highest  freedom.  In  her  visits  to  the 
poor,  while  entering  into  their  trials  and  feel 
ings,  she  acquired  a  deeper  and  juster  knowl 
edge  of  human  nature,  and  therefore  a  truer 
reverence  for  it.  To  Fanny,  she  was  as  she 
ever  had  been  —  a  faithful  friend  —  always 
speaking  the  truth  in  love  to  her  —  ever 
guarding  her  against  those  faults  which  she 
7 


98  SKETCHES    OF 

feared,  if  indulged  in,  would  eventually  prove 
fatal  to  her  peace. 

There  was  another  source  of  anxiety  in 
Amy's  heart,  with  regard  to  Fanny  and  her 
husband.  She  feared  they  wanted  the  habit, 
founded  on  principle,  of  an  entire  and  unre 
served  expression  of  all  their  feelings,  what 
ever  they  might  be,  to  each  other ;  they  had 
not  a  determined  purpose,  that  their  thoughts, 
their  every  action  and  desire,  their  most 
trifling  joys  and  sorrows  —  their  whole  soulsr 
should  stand  all  undisguised  before  the  otherr 
in  the  simplicity  of  truth.  Amy  also  appre 
hended  that  they  neither  of  them  possessed 
that  faith  in  the  reality  of  their  spiritual  na 
ture,  which  can  alone  secure  the  happiness 
of  married  life  from  that  slow  and  gradual 
but  certain  decay,  brought  on  by  the  little 
collisions,  the  every  day  trials  of  temper, 
the  personal  dislikes,  which  sometimes  spring 
up  when  the  charm  which  belongs  to  a  less 
intimate  and  more  imaginative  connexion  is 
dissolved.  Without  an  implicit  reliance  on 
that  spiritual  foundation  of  all  true  love,  how 
could  they  possess  an  abiding  faith  in  the 
immortality  of  their  union,  dependent  only 
on  their  remaining  worthy  of  each  other's 
affection  by  a  continual  growth  in  excellence  ? 


MARRIED    LIFE.  99 

When  Fanny  became  a  mother,  Amy  said 
to  her  one  day,  as  she  was  caressing  her 
infant,  "  What  a  new  and  precious  hond  of 
union  this  dear  baby  must  be,  Fanny,  be 
tween  you  and  your  husband!  Here  your 
hearts  will  always  meet,  I  am  sure ;  and  it 
will  make  you  both  love  Him  who  gave  it, 
better  and  more  truly  than  ever." 

"  I  pray  that  you  may  not  be  disappointed 
in  your  faith  in  us,  Amy,"  replied  Fanny  ; 
and  the  tears  flowed  fast  down  her  cheeks, 
as  she  spoke. 

Amy's  heart  was  troubled. 

After  rather  a  long  and  oppressive  silence, 
Fanny  resumed  the  conversation. 

"  Do  you  know,  Amy,  that  we  shall  soon 
leave  Boston  ?  "  and  her  tears  began  again  to 
flow. 

"  Dear  Fanny,  no !  I  thought  you  loved 
Boston  too  well  to  think  it  possible  that  you 
should  live  elsewhere." 

"And  so  I  do,  Amy,"  answered  Fanny, 
with  vehemence.  "  I  love  the  very  clumsy 
old  broken  paving-stones  of  Boston  better 
than  all  the  splendors  of  any  other  city  in 
the  world.  I  love  its  crooked  lanes  —  its 
ugly  churches  —  its  narrow  sidewalks.  I 
love  all  the  stiff,  prudish  people  of  Boston  — 


100  SKETCHES    OF 

their  odd,  narrow,  aristocratic  notions  —  their 
solemn  self-conceit.  All  its  follies  are  dear 
to  me." 

"  You  have  given  a  queer  set  of  reasons 
for  loving  Boston,  Fanny." 

"  This  is  the  best  proof  that  I  am  a  true 
lover.  Any  person  of  common  sense  and 
good  taste  must  love  Boston  for  what  all 
acknowledge  to  be  excellent  in  it.  But  as 
for  its  intellectual  and  moral  tastes,  and  all 
its  nameless  attractions  —  there  is  no  merit  in 
loving  these.  But  I  love  it  for  its  very 
faults,  especially  now  that  I  am  going  to 
leave  it.  This  puts  me  in  mind  of  poor  aunt 
Hetty,  who  was  very  tiresome  to  me  while 
she  was  alive,  trotting  about,  finding  fault 
with  every  thing  and  every  body,  especially 
with  me,  whom  she  probably  thought  the 
chief  of  sinners.  Then  I  saw  all  her  defects, 
personal  and  mental ;  but  when  the  dear  old 
soul  came  to  die,  when  she  so  meekly 
resigned  herself  to  the  will  of  God,  and  so 
humbly  confessed  all  her  sins  (which,  after 
all,  were  so  few)  —  when  she  even  put  her 
hand  on  my  head,  and  prayed  so  fervently 
for  a  blessing  upon  me,  which,  I  am  sure,  I 
did  not  deserve,  and  when  I  heard  her 
calm  and  Christian  farewell,  and  knew  that 


+  J& 

MARRIED    LIFE.  101 


it  was  her  last  —  O,  then  how  my  heart  pray 
ed  that  she  might  live,  and  that  I  might  be 
blessed,  for  many  years,  with  her  faithful 
love  —  her  kind,  because  just  reproofs !  Even 
her  homely  face  became  beautiful  to  me  ;  the 
great  wart  on  the  tip  of  her  nose  lost  its  de 
formity  ;  and  I  have,  ever  since,  felt  rather  a 
peculiar  regard  for  such  excrescences  upon 
that  respectable,  yet  so  often  comical  and 
much-abused,  feature  of  the  human  face." 

Fanny  burst  into  a  sort  of  hysterical  laugh, 
at  her  own  strange  fancies. 

"  Why,"  said  Amy,  who  could  not  resist 
joining  in  Fanny's  tearful  laugh,  "  Why  do 
you  leave  Boston,  if  you  feel  so  badly  about 
it  ?  and  where  are  you  going  ?  " 

"  My  husband's  father,"  replied  Fanny, 
"  has  lately  had  a  stroke  of  the  palsy.  He 
is  very  infirm,  and  has  sent  on  an  urgent 
request  to  his  son,  that  he  would  come  and 
live  with  him  for  the  remainder  of  his  days. 
He  is  rich,  lives  in  a  house  sufficiently 
large  to  accommodate  us  all,  and  there  we 
are  going  as  soon  as  we  can  make  the  neces 
sary  arrangements.  Now  tell  me  if  you 
don't  pity  me,  Amy." 

"  I  cannot  think  any  one  is  a  fit  subject 
for  compassion,"  said  Amy,  "  who  can  call 


102 


SKETCHES    OF 


such  a  sweet  baby  as  you  have  in  your  lap 
her  own;  to  say  nothing  of  all  your  other 
blessings,  Fanny." 

"  Yes,  I  know  all  that  can  be  said  of  that 
sort  of  thing,  Amy.  Mrs.  Lovell  has  been 
here,  talking  good  to  me,  and  giving  me  a 
vast  deal  of  information  with  regard  to  the 
extraordinary  character  of  my  husband,  and 
telling  me  that  I  was  the  most  favored 
woman  in  the  world  —  that  it  was  my  own 
fault,  if  I  was  not  perfectly  happy ;  in  short, 
she  made  out  a  list  of  my  blessings,  suffi 
ciently  accurate  for  an  auctioneer,  if,  alas ! 
happiness  could  be  purchased.  You  see, 
Amy,  I  know  all  about  my  blessings  before 
hand." 

"My  dear  Fanny,  I  must,  nevertheless," 
replied  Amy,  "  ask  you  to  look  in  that  sweet 
baby's  face,  that  is  now  actually  smiling 
upon  you,  and  see  if  you  do  not  find  the 
spirit  of  complaint  die  away,  and  a  brighter, 
happier  feeling  take  its  place.  A  heart  so 
loving  as  yours  must  make  its  own  home. 
What  matter  is  it  where  you  are,  if  those 
you  love  are  with  you  ?  " 

"  But,  Amy,  I  must  part  from  you.  How 
can  I  live  without  you  ?  " 

"  You  are  less  dependent  upon  me,  Fanny, 


MARRIED    LIFE.  103 

than  you  suppose.  Besides,  I  do  not  intend 
that  you  shall  live  without  me.  We  will  be 
good  and  faithful  correspondents,  and  our 
love  shall  still  be  a  mutual  blessing  to  us. 
Come,  Fanny,  cheer  up ;  by  to-morrow  you 
will  begin  to  see  the  bright  side  of  the  pic 
ture.  I  shall,  after  all,  be  the  greatest  loser. 
You  have  a  husband  and  child ;  but  whom 
have  I  here  to  take  your  place  ?  " 

For  the  short  time  that  they  remained  in 
Boston,  Fanny  persisted  in  speaking  of  their 
removal  to  New  York  as  if  it  were  a  banish 
ment  from  all  that  was  desirable  in  life. 
The  evening  before  their  departure  they 
passed  with  Amy. 

"  Remember  us  in  your  prayers,  Amy," 
said  Fanny,  as  she  bade  her  farewell.  "  We 
not  only  (at  least,  I  may  speak  for  myself) 
partake  largely  of  the  weakness  and  sins  of 
our  first  parents,  but  we  are  also  receiving  a 
similar  punishment.  I,  the  Eve  of  the  play, 
am,  of  course,  the  greatest  sinner.  Come, 
spouse  adored,"  she  said  to  her  husband,  "I 
suppose  that  you,  like  father  Adam,  are  pun 
ished  more  for  the  sins  of  your  wife  than  for 
your  own." 

Amy,  who  had  been  intimate  with  Fanny 
from  a  child,  knew  that  this  levity  was  as- 


104  SKETCHES    OF 

sumed,  in  order  to  hide  feelings  which  she 
did  not  dare  to  indulge ;  but  she  saw  that 
Mr.  Roberts  was  deeply  pained  by  it ;  and  in 
the  shade  of  sadness  on  his  brow,  which  was 
not  for  a  moment  chased  away,  by  Fanny's 
forced  merriment,  she  discerned  a  dark  fore 
boding  of  future  sorrow  and  trial  to  them 
both. 

About  a  week  after  Fanny's  arrival,  Amy 
received  the  following  letter  from  her : 

JNew  York, . 

Dear  Amy, 

Can  it  be  only  a  week  since  I  left  Boston 
—  the  blessed  place  where  I  first  drew  the 
breath  of  life,  where  I  first  became  con 
scious  of  this  craving  thirst  for  happiness, 
still  unsatisfied,  the  place  where  you  and  I 
have  been  playmates  and  friends  as  long  as  I 
can  remember  anything,  the  place  where  I 
first  learned  to  love  all  that  I  have  loved,  all 
that  I  do  love  ?  Do  you  wonder,  when  all 
these  recollections  of  Boston  cluster  around 
my  heart,  that  I  should  feel  so  sad  at  leaving 
it?  "No,"  you  will  say;  "but  it  is  your 
duty  to  try  to  like  New  York  ;  that  is  —  that 
must  be  your  home."  What  a  task  you 
have  set  me !  I  cannot  like  anything  be- 


MARRIED    LIFE.  105 

cause  it  is  my  duty  to  like  it.  But  I  will 
give  you  some  of  my  first  impressions,  and 
then  you  will  see  that  I  have  duty  enough 
on  hand.  I  pass  over  the  impression  made 
on  my  mind,  at  our  arrival  in  the  city,  hy 
the  forests  of  masts  —  the  multitudinous 
houses  —  the  unceasing  movement  of  human 
beings,  rushing,  in  perpetual  streams,  through 
the  streets  and  lanes  of  the  city,  like  the 
blood  through  the  veins  and  arteries  of  the 
human  body.  My  husband  asked  me,  as  the 
steamboat  stopped  at  the  wharf,  if  it  was  not 
a  grand  sight.  "  Yes,"  I  said ;  "  but  it 
makes  me  feel  very  lonely,  to  see  so  many 
strangers."  "It  shall,"  he  replied,  "be  the 
purpose  of  my  life,  dear  Fanny,  to  make  you 
happy.  I  hope  you  will  become  reconciled 
to  New  York."  "  O,  yes,"  I  answered,  "  I 
shall  be  happy ; "  and  I  really  felt,  at  that 
moment,  Amy,  as  if  I  could  have  lived  with 
him  in  the  black  hole  of  Calcutta. 

But  you  want  to  know  about  my  home, 
and  about  my  husband's  father,  whom  I 
never  saw  before.  He  is  a  kind,  simple- 
hearted,  quiet  old  man.  As  he  folded  his 
arms  around  his  son,  he  said,  "  Thank 
\  Heaven,  who  has  given  me  back  my  son ! 
You  will  be  here,  William,  to  close  your  old 


106 


SKETCHES    OF 


father's  eyes."  He  received  me  very  affec 
tionately,  and  said,  "  You  must  remember, 
my  dear,  that  you  are  in  your  father's  house." 
I  felt  quite  happy,  considering  I  was  not  in 
Boston.  The  tears  came  into  the  old  man's 
eyes,  when  my  husband  presented  him  our 
baby.  "God  bless  the  boy,"  he  said,  "and 
make  him  as  great  a  comfort  to  his  parents 
as  my  son  has  been  to  me  !  "  Presently  he 
rang  the  bell.  When  the  servant  came,  he 
desired  him  to  go  and  tell  Mrs.  Hawkins  that 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Roberts  had  arrived.  "  Your 
housekeeper,  father,  is  it  not  ?  "  said  my  hus 
band.  "  Yes,"  he  replied  ;  "  and  a  very  use 
ful  and  faithful  person  she  is.  I  could  not 
live  without  her." 

In  a  few  minutes,  this  important  personage 
entered.  She  is  a  short,  spare  figure,  with  a 
head  long  and  large  enough  for  a  tall  woman. 
She  has  a  long,  hooked  nose,  and  scarcely 
any  chin,  with  a  large  mouth ;  but  her  lips 
.  are  so  thin,  and  they  are  so  firmly  compress 
ed,  that,  when  she  is  silent,  you  would 
hardly  know  she  had  any.  Her  piercing, 
black  eyes  are  perfectly  round.  Her  com 
plexion  is  very  yellow,  and  she  dresses  in 
green;  so  that  the  idea  of  a  bilious  parrot 
was  immediately  brought  to  my  mind  by  her 
appearance ;  and  I  should  riot  have  been 


MARRIED    LIFE.  107 

much  surprised,  if  I  had  said  "  poor  Poll "  to 
her.  Then  she  takes  very  short  steps,  and 
moves  very  fast ;  so  of  course  she  must  trot : 
and  as  her  petticoats  are  short,  and  her  feet 
unusually  long,  when  your  attention  is  not 
arrested  by  her  nose,  you  see  nothing  but  her 
feet. 

Imagine,  dear  Amy,  what  I  must  have 
endured,  at  being  introduced  to  such  a  figure, 
with  the  knowledge,  too,  that  I  was  to  live 
with  her,  nobody  knows  how  long.  But  I 
will  go  on  with  scene  first  in  our  new  life. 
When  she  heard  our  names,  she  darted  a 
glance  at  us,  and,  quick  as  thought,  she  ran 
up  to  my  husband  first,  and  gave  his  hand  a 
sort  of  swing,  and  afterwards  performed  the 
same  operation  upon  me,  but  with  less  cor 
diality.  I  see  you  shake  your  head,  Amy, 
and  say,  "  Fanny,  this  is  naughty  in  you ;  it 
is  contemptible,  to  laugh  at  personal  defects 
or  peculiarities,"  and  so  on ;  and  I  acknowl 
edge  it  all.  But,  remember,  I  have  promised 
to  write  every  thing  to  you  just  as  it  is  —  to 
say  every  thing  just  as  it  comes  into  my 
mind ;  and  you  could  not  judge  of  me  rightly 
without  knowing  every  thing  relating  to  me, 
more  especially  anything  so  important,  and 
so  calculated  to  affect  one's  destiny,  as  being 


108 


SKETCHES    OF 


doomed  to  live  with  such  an  oddity  as  I  have 
described. 

Well,  to  continue.  She  took  the  baby 
with  a  sort  of  jerk  from  the  nurse's  arms,  and 
held  it  up  to  the  light,  which  of  course  set  it 
screeching.  As  she  jerked  it  back  again,  she 
said,  "  It  looks  most  like  its  Ma." 

After  we  had  been  seated  a  little  while, 
she  asked  me  if  I  should  like  to  go  to  my 
room  to  refresh  myself.  I  gladly  said  yes. 
She  treads  very  heavy,  and  wears  double 
soled  shoes ;  so  you  may  imagine  what  a 
clatter  she  makes  going  up  stairs. 

It  is  a  large  old-fashioned  house,  and  our 
apartments  are  delightful.  My  nursery  is 
next  to  my  own  chamber,  and  all  is  thought 
fully  arranged  for  our  comfort.  Mrs.  Haw 
kins  said,  "  she  hoped  things  would  suit ;  she 
had  done  the  best  she  could  for  us."  And 
she  retired.  When  the  dinner  hour  had 
nearly  arrived,  I  went  down  stairs  into  the 
drawing-room,  where  I  found  my  husband 
and  his  father  still  chatting  as  I  left  them. 
Presently  the  old  gentleman  said,  "  I  have 
always  been  in  the  habit  of  having  my  house 
keeper  at  my  table.  If  it  be  not  disagreeable 
I  shall  still  invite  her  to  our  meals." 

"  Certainly,"  replied  my  husband.  "  You 
have  no  objection,  I  am  sure,  Fanny  ?  " 


MARRIED    LIFE.  109 

What  could  I  do  but  tell  a  fib,  and  say  I 
had  none  ?  So  you  perceive  I  am  doomed 
to  take  my  meals  with  this  strange  biped, 
How  I  shall  bear  it  I  cannot  say.  No  one  in 
this  world  I  am  sure  would  stand  surety  for 
my  good  behavior.  Three  times  a  day,  for  an 
hour  at  a  time  I  must  see  her.  I  know 
nothing  of  her  character,  for  she  merely 
throws  out  her  words^  as  the  automaton  chess 
player  says  "echec."  If  she  would  only 
turn  out  a  piece  of  machinery  now,  how  re 
lieved  I  should  be  ;  but  I  fear  she  has  some 
kind  of  a  soul,  though  I  have  not  found  out 
yet  what  is  its  character. 

And  now  I  dare  say  you  would  ask  ;  "  Are 
you  happy  Fanny  ?  and  do  you  behave  your 
self  well  ? "  All  the  world  would  suppose 
that  there  was  but  one  answer  to  both  ques 
tions.  Yes,  to  the  first,  and  no,  to  the  last. 
But  it  often  happens  that  the  world  answers 
questions  for  us  that  we  should  find  it  hard 
to  answer  for  ourselves.  Am  I  happy  ?  I 
ought  to  be  ;  I  do  thirst  for  happiness ;  what 
human  being  does  not  ?  I  cannot  tell  why  I 
am  not.  No  woman  was  ever  blessed  with  a 
better  husband ;  my  precious  baby  looks  like 
an  emanation  of  joy.  All  the  world  without, 
smiles  upon  me.  Where  are  the  clouds, 


110  SKETCHES    OF 

whence  are  they,  that  hang  round  my  heart 
sometimes  ?  I  know  not.  When  my  hus 
band  sees  them  he  does  every  thing  that 
patient  kindness  can  do  to  chase  them  away ; 
but  then  I  try  his  temper  sadly ;  I  know  I 
do,  though  he  never  finds  fault  with  me  now. 
He  is  even  more  silent  than  he  used  to  be,  or 
he  takes  a  book,  or  he  goes  to  walk.  If  he 
would  only  speak ;  if  he  would  only  scold  at 
me,  as  you  do  ;  if  he  would  but  just  get  into  a 
passion,  ever  so  little  of  a  passion,  I  should 
feel  better  than  to  see  him  so  quiet  when  I 
know  I  have  done  wrong,  and  that  he  is  not 
pleased.  You  see  that  I  am  a  little  hipped, 
dear  Amy,  or  I  should  not  run  on  so,  as  if 
there  was  anything  real  in  it.  Burn  this.  It 
is  all  nonsense.  It  is  the  strange  housekeeper 
that  makes  me  so  vaporish,  I  doubt  not.  My 
husband  always  sends  his  love  to  you  ;  and 
as  for  my  baby  if  it  does  not  love  you  I  will 
disown  it.  Ever  yours, 

FANNY  ROBERTS. 

Amy  sighed  heavily  as  she  finished  read 
ing  Fanny's  letter.  "  Alas,  poor  Fanny  !" 
said  she  to  herself,  "  there  is  a  canker  at  the 
root  of  all  her  joys. 


MARRIED    LIFE.  Ill 

'  And  forward  though  I  cannot  look, 
I  guess  and  fear.' 

I  must  be  faithful  to  her  now.  I  must  tell 
her  all  I  think.  I  must  warn  her  against  the 
dangers  that  beset  her." 

With  Amy,  to  resolve  and  to  act,  were  the 
same  thing.  She  immediately  wrote  the 
following  letter  to  her  friend. 

Dearest  Fanny, 

You  are  a  really  good  correspondent ;  you 
tell  everything  just  as  it  occurs,  as  you 
promised.  I  could  not  but  laugh  heartily  at 
your  description  of  Mrs.  Hawkins  ;  and  yet 
Fanny,  I  cannot  think  such  things  quite 
right.  You  have  injured  that  woman,  I  doubt 
not.  I  cannot  believe  that  she  is  such  a 
strange  mortal  as  you  have  described  her. 
But,  dear  Fanny,  though  I  began  your  letter 
with  laughing,  I  ended  with  the  heart-ache, 
for  I  saw  in  it  that  you  were  not  happy ;  and, 
at  the  risk  of  giving  you  pain,  I  must  speak 
frankly  and  fearlessly  to  you,  all  that  is  in  my 
heart.  I  must  tell  you  all  the  apprehensions 
which  your  letter  has  called  up  in  my  mind 
with  regard  to  the  happiness  of  your  future 
life. 

You  are  unhappy.     You  must  not  attempt 


112  SKETCHES    OF 

to  hide  it  from  me ;  you  cannot ;  you  are 
unhappy.  Now,  what  is  the  cause  of  it  ? 
You  have  not  taken  that  fatal  step,  you  have 
not  brought  upon  yourself  that  life-long 
blight,  of  marrying  a  man  that  you  do  not 
love  ;  you  have  not  so  desecrated  your  own 
soul.  No,  dear  Fanny,  you  love  Mr.  Roberts 
better  than  aught  else  in  this  wide  world, 
and  yet  you  are  not  happy  as  his  wife. 
What  is  the  reason  ?  You  must  put  this 
question  to  your  own  heart  with  the  most 
solemn  earnestness.  Have  you  not  supposed 
that  a  union  with  him  you  loved  was  to 
make  you  happy  in  itself,  and  by  itself ;  and 
that  it  involved  no  appropriate  duties,  and 
called  for  no  unusual  virtue  ?  There  are  no 
external  causes  of  your  unhappiness.  You 
have  all  that  the  most  craving  heart  can 
reasonably  ask  of  outward  good.  The  chil 
dren  of  poverty,  and  sickness,  and  oppression, 
might  well  cry  out  against  you,  that  with  so 
many  of  God's  richest  blessings  on  your  head, 
your  every  breath  is  not  a  song  of  praise  and 
thankfulness.  Whence,  then,  as  you  yourself 
ask,  are  these  clouds  that  hang  over  your 
heart  ? 

Is  it  not,  Fanny,  that,  instead  of  going  with 
your  craving  thirst  for  happiness,  to  the  Eter- 


jS 
MARRIED    LIFE.  113 

nal  Fountain,  you  are  still  standing  unsatis 
fied  by  the  broken  cisterns  that  hold  no 
water  ?  You  allow  your  thoughts  and  affec 
tions  to  dwell  on  the  outward ;  you  do  not 
cultivate  the  principle  of  faith. 

"  Very  like,"  you  will  say ;  "  I  know  this 
well,  but  how  am  I  to  do  this  ?  Show  me  the 
way."  They  who  strive  after  the  highest 
must  begin  with  the  nearest.  Go  to  your 
husband,  and  ask  his  help,  and  seek  to  aid 
him  in  the  same  great  purpose  of  a  perfect 
understanding  between  you.  You  must  tell 
him  all  that  is  in  your  heart ;  you  must  turn 
it  inside  out  to  him.  You  must  be  perfectly 
true  yourself,  and  you  must  insist  upon  truth 
from  him  in  return.  You  must  confess  to 
your  husband  every  weakness  and  sin  of  your 
own,  as  well  as  tell  him  every  fault  you  find 
in  him,  and  every  pain  that  he  gives  you. 
You  must  pour  out  into  his  bosom  every  hope, 
every  fear,  every  trembling  doubt,  every 
mysterious  longing  that  you  can  find  words, 
or  sighs,  or  tears  to  communicate ;  just  as 
you  would  to  God  himself.  Do  not  answer, 
"My  husband  is  so  reserved  that  I  cannot 
speak  to  him  on  these  subjects ;  he  never 
speaks  to  me  upon  them."  Speak  to  him 
8 


114  SKETCHES    OF 

then  of  the  pain  that  he  gives  to  you  by  his 
reserve. 

What  is  it  you  love  in  him?  It  is  his 
soul ;  O,  can  you  bear  to  be  a  stranger  to 
that  ?  and  can  you  be  happy  when  he  is  a 
stranger  to  yours  ?  No  !  your  heart  answers, 
No  !  This  is  the  secret  of  your  discontent, 
dear  Fanny.  Do  not  heed  the  little  cares, 
the  little  vexations,  the  little  faults,  that  every 
day  brings  with  it.  The  little  and  the  great 
troubles  of  life  are  excellent  exercises  of  our 
faith  and  patience,  if  we  will  only  so  view 
them  ;  and  the  mutual  errors  and  failings  of 
friends,  if  instead  of  trying  to  hide,  there 
is  a  determined  purpose  to  cure  them,  will 
bind  them  more  closely  together.  If  our 
hearts  are  perfectly  united  in  one  holy  desire 
beyond  and  above  all  those  paltry  trials  and 
vexations,  then  the  real  and  the  unreal  things 
of  life  become  distinctly  understood,  and  take 
their  right  ; place  in  our  affections,  and  have 
only  their  just  influence  upon  our  happiness. 
But  if,  on  the  contrary,  the  thoughts  and 
affections  dwell  in  the  transient  circumstances 
of  life,  then  all  the  imperfections,  within  and 
without,  acquire  a  power  if  it  were  only  from 
their  number,  that  becomes  at  last  irresistible, 
and  when  the  soul  awakes  it  finds  itself  a 


MARRIED    LIFE.  115 

prisoner.  I  have  for  some  time,  dear  Fanny, 
feared  that  these  enemies  to  your  peace  were 
gaining  a  dangerous  power  over  your  happi 
ness,  and  that  thus,  instead  of  finding  in  your 
husband  as  you  might,  a  helper  to  your  virtue, 
a  true  friend  of  your  soul,  you  will  make  him 
another  cause  of  evil,  and  eventually  of  al 
most  hopeless  misery  to  you. 

Dearest  Fanny,  I  well  know  I  give  you 
pain.  I  know  that  to  a  common  and  unin 
terested  observer  all  that  I  have  said  would 
seem  superfluous  and  not  warranted  by  the 
occasion ;  but  I  think  I  can  read  your  soul 
better  than  any  one  else,  and  I  know  that  it 
is  only  faithful  love  that  bids  me  speak  as  I 
do.  For  some  time  past  I  have  perceived,  as 
I  thought,  that  your  happiness  wanted  the 
foundation  which  only  perfect  truth  and  re 
ligious  trust  can  give.  Love  between  married 
people  must  be  like  St.  Paul's  description  of 
charity,  bearing,  believing,  hoping,  and  en 
during  all  things,  it  must  never  fail ;  like 
charity  too,  it  must  be  built  on  faith  and 
hope,  and  thus  become  the  greatest  of  the 
three,  because  it  is  the  full  expression  and 
perfect  manifestation  of  all. 

I  fear  you  will  say,  "  Oh  what  a  sermon  ; 


116  SKETCHES    OF    MARRIED    LIFE. 

she  promised  me  a  letter !  "  But  I  know  you 
will  forgive  me,  even  if  you  think  I  am  tire 
some  and  disagreeable,  and  that  you  will 
continue  to  love  me ;  so  I  will  set  you  a  good 
example,  and  be  not  faithless  but  believing. 
Ever  your  faithful  and  loving  friend, 

AMY. 


CHAPTER   IX. 


"  I  have  touched  the  highest  point  of  all  my  greatness." 

HENRY  EIGHTH. 


A  FEW  days  after  Amy  had  written  to 
Fanny,  she  noticed  that  when  her  father 
returned  from  the  counting-house,  he  looked 
much  agitated,  and  immediately  retired,  say 
ing  he  should  not  take  any  dinner. 

"  Are  you  not  well,  father  ? "  asked  Amy, 
anxiously,  as  she  followed  him  to  his  room. 
"  Does  your  head  ache  ?  " 

"  Something  worse  than  the  head-ache  is 
the  matter." 

"  What  is  it,  father  ?  "  said  Amy,  tenderly. 
"  Have  you  any  other  pain  ?  " 

"  Yes,  child,  I  have ;  and,  what  is  worse, 
it  is  a  pain  that  will  go  to  the  grave  with 
me,  and  help  to  carry  me  there." 

"  Father !  dear  father  !  what  is  it  ?  I  did 
not  know  of  anything  to  make  you  unhappy. 
Why  did  not  you  tell  me  of  it  before  ?  What 
can  it  be  ?  " 


118  SKETCHES    OF 

"  A  hopeless  disease  —  an  incurable  sorrow, 
when  it  seizes  on  an  old  man." 

Mr.  Weston's  voice  became  tremulous  ;  he 
even  wept.  Amy  was  alarmed ;  she  had 
never  seen  her  father  so  moved. 

"  Tell  me,  father,  what  is  the  matter  ? 
What  calamity  has  befallen  you  ? " 

"  The  worst  calamity  that  can  befal  a  man ; 
that  from  which  I  have  so  fervently  prayed 
to  be  spared ;  that  from  which  I  have  labor 
ed  and  toiled  to  escape ;  that  from  which  I 
thought  I  was  secure;  that  misery  which 
comprehends  all  others." 

"What — what  is  it?  O,  dear  father, 
speak !  tell  me  !  "  cried  Amy,  almost  breath 
less  with  fear ;  "  tell  me,  I  beseech  you !  " 

"  Poverty  in  my  old  age !  "  groaned  out 
the  old  man. 

"And  is  that  all,  father?"  exclaimed  Amy. 
"  Thank  God,  if  that  is  all !  I  feared  some 
thing  much  worse." 

"  And  what  worse  than  that  could  happen 
to  your  father,  Amy  ?  Is  there  any  greater 
misery  than  poverty,  which  could  befal  a 
man  of  my  standing  in  society  ? " 

"  Yes,  father ;  disgrace  is  worse.  I  did 
fear,  from  what  you  said,  that  some  evil  sus 
picion  of  wrong  doing  had  fallen  on  your  old 
age." 


MARRIED    LIFE.  119 

"  And  is  not  poverty  a  disgrace  to  a  man 
who  has  always  held  such  a  place  as  I  have 
in  the  world  ?  Will  it  not  be  a  shame  to 
me,  to  be  standing  in  the  street,  with  you, 
my  only  daughter,  on  my  arm,  covered  with 
the  dust,  from  the  carriages  of  the  mushroom 
gentry,  who  were  once  so  glad  to  take  their 
hats  off,  as  we  passed  in  ours  ?  will  not  you 
feel  mortified  and  degraded  ?  " 

"  No,  father ;  I  can  never  feel  that  either 
you  or  I  are  disgraced  by  poverty,  or  be 
ashamed  of  the  dust  that  falls  upon  me  from 
any  one's  carriage.  If  we  have  our  lives 
and  health,  father,  and  our  honest  name,  we 
surely  will  not  despair.  Father,  I  feel  so 
relieved  at  finding  that  this  is  all,  that  it 
almost  seems  to  me  now  as  if  no  real  misfor 
tune  had  befallen  us.  If  I  could  only  make 
you  feel  so  too  !  " 

"  You  never  can,  Amy.  I  see  nothing  but 
starvation  and  misery  before  us." 

"  No,  no,  father ;  we  will  be  very  happy. 
The  small  property  I  inherited  from  my 
mother  will  keep  us  from  starving ;  and  you 
do  n't  know  what  a  good  economist  I  can  be. 
Only  do  n't  despair,  father,  and  we  will  yet 
be  as  happy  as  we  have  ever  been." 

"  Never !    never !  "    said   her  father.      "  I 


120  SKETCHES    OF 

am  one  of  the  many  victims  of  this  miserable 
republicanism.  Where  the  swinish  multi 
tude  can  make  laws  and  repeal  them  at  their 
pleasure,  there  is  no  security  for  property. 
One.  man  after  another  has  failed,  who  owed 
me  money,  in  consequence  of  the  absurd 
policy  of  our  government.  I  am  worth  al 
most  nothing.  What  is  left  will  not  much 
more  than  pay  my  debts.  I  must  sell  my 
houses,  and  horses,  and  carriages,  and  live  in 
the  most  economical  way  possible  ;  and,  but 
for  your  mother's  property,  I  do  n't  know  but 
you  would  have  to  dress  in  factory  cotton.  " 

"  If  I  can  only  see  you  happy,  father,  I 
shall  not  think  of  what  material  my  dress  is 
made." 

"  You  will  never  see  me  happy  again.  I 
have  spent  my  whole  life  in  securing,  as  I 
supposed,  a  property  which  would  put  you 
and  myself  entirely  above  want  —  indeed,  I 
hoped,  in  affluence,  and  establish  you  in  so 
ciety  as  the  daughter  of  a  man  of  my  stand 
ing  ought  to  be  established  ;  and  here  all  my 
hopes  are  swept  away  in  a  moment,  and  I 
am  left  for  the  world  to  pity,  and  pass  by, 
and  soon  forget." 

Amy  found  it  was  vain  to  reason  with  her 
father.  He  considered  her  ideas  of  happiness 


MARRIED    LIFE.  121 

romantic  and  childish.  She  could  not  appeal 
to  his  religious  feelings,  for  she  knew  that 
his  gratitude  to  God,  of  which  he  often  spoke 
in  the  days  of  his  prosperity,  was  founded 
upon  the  idea,  that  he  himself  was  peculiarly 
favored.  He  had  hitherto  viewed  the  Creator 
as  a  partial,  not  as  a  just  Being.  He  did  not 
love  him  because  he  was  the  Father  and 
Benefactor  of  all,  but  because  he  thought  he 
had  a  particular  love  for  himself,  and  had 
given  to  him  more  than  to  his  other  children. 
Now,  when  he  was  stripped  of  the  many- 
colored  coat  with  which  his  self-love  fancied 
he  had  been  clothed,  he  thought  the  love 
which  gave  it  was  gone  too,  and  his  faith 
and  gratitude  were  gone  with  it.  He  no 
longer  talked  of  the  designs  of  Providence ; 
he  began  to  doubt  if  there  was  one.  Amy 
listened  patiently  to  his  complaints,  and  tried, 
by  the  most  watchful  tenderness,  to  soothe 
his  sufferings ;  but  she  soon  saw  that  he 
would  not  be  comforted.  The  habits  of  ac 
tivity,  and  industry,  and  economy,  which 
she  had  cultivated  for  the  last  year,  in  order 
to  enable  her  to  do  good  to  the  poor,  consist 
ently  with  all  her  other  duties,  were  now  of 
the  greatest  service  to  her,  in  enabling  her  to 
assist  her  father  in  the  change  in  their  mode 


122  SKETCHES    OF 

of    life,   which   their  altered   circumstances 
made  necessary. 

They  took  a  small  house,  and  adopted  an 
entirely  different  style  of  living.  Amy  re 
tained  Ruth  for  their  only  domestic.  In  all 
their  arrangements,  she  took  care  that  her 
father's  comfort  should  be  most  especially 
consulted.  All  the  sacrifices  she  managed 
should,  as  far  as  possible,  fall  upon  herself; 
all  the  indulgences  that  she  thought  they 
could  allow  themselves  were  for  his  comfort. 
Her  father  had  gradually  acquired  the  habit, 
from  seeing  Amy  so  efficient,  of  consulting 
her  about  every  thing.  All  his  affairs  were 
now  known  to  her.  The  amount  of  his  in 
come,  (when  all  his  debts  were  paid,)  with 
what  her  own  little  property  supplied,  amount 
ed  to  a  sufficient  sum  to  enable  them  to  live 
in  comfort,  and  allowed  them  some  few  of 
the  luxuries  of  life. 

"  I  think,  Amy,"  said  Mr.  Weston,  "  that 
you  might  keep  two  domestics,  a  man  and  a 
woman  ;  and  that  you  might  afford  a  fire  in 
your  bed-room ;  and  that  you  might  also 
have  retained  your  copy  of  Audubon's  birds." 

"  We  could  not  have  every  thing,  father  ; 
and  there  is  one  luxury  of  more  importance  to 
me  than  either  of  those,  and  which  would 


MARRIED    LIFE.  123 

- 

give  me  far  more  pleasure  to  retain  ;  and  that, 
with  your  consent,  I  should  like  to  be  in 
dulged  in." 

"  And  what  is  that,  Amy  ?  " 

"  Provided  you  will  ride  him,  so  as  to  keep 
him  in  health,  I  should  rather  not  part  with 
Robinette." 

Mr.  Weston's  health  was  very  dependent 
upon  exercise  in  the  open  air.  He  knew 
that  it  was  Amy's  knowledge  of  this,  more 
than  her  attachment  to  her  favorite  horse, 
that  induced  her  choice ;  he  felt  the  delicacy 
of  her  making  it  appear  a  favor  to  herself. 
Poverty  had  already  opened  to  him  some 
hitherto  unknown  springs  of  happiness.  He 
sighed,  but  there  was  a  better  feeling  than 
usual  that  moved  him. 

"  Do  as  you  please,  dear,"  he  said  ;  and  he 
turned  away  to  hide  a  tear,  as  he  consented. 

Ruth  was  a  very  efficient  help  to  Amy,  in 
her  new  mode  of  life.  Although  her  labors 
were  doubled,  she  never  complained,  and 
never  seemed  oppressed  by  them.  Hers 
was  always  a  service  of  love  ;  the  wages  she 
received,  she  considered  a  simple  equivalent 
for  her  labor.  Before  she  engaged  herself  to 
Miss  Weston,  she  had  inquired  her  character 
with  the  greatest  particularity,  expecting  her 


124  SKETCHES    OF 


to  do  the  same  with  regard  to  herself;  for 
she  said,  "  It  must  fce  a  poor  rule  that  did 
not  work  both  ways."  Amy  was  her  idol  — 
her  beau  ideal  of  excellence.  She  could  not 
bear  to  see  her  work  so  hard  as  she  now  did. 
It  was  a  real  source  of  vexation  to  her.  Nei 
ther  could  she  be  reconciled  to  seeing  her 
deny  herself  so  many  of  the  luxuries  to 
which  she  had  hitherto  been  accustomed. 

"  I  do  n't  wish  any  fire  in  my  room,"  said 
Amy  to  her,  one  morning,  when  she  was 
stealing  in  very  softly,  to  make  it  before  she 
was  up ;  "  and  if  I  did,  I  should  not  allow 
you,  Ruth,  to  make  it ;  you  have  too  much 
work  to  do  already." 

"  Now,  ma'am,  it 's  really  ridiculous  for 
you  not  to  have  a  fire.  It 's  no  trouble  to 
make  it." 

"  But  we  cannot  afford  it,  Ruth." 

"  Why,  ma'am,  you  ought  to  have  a  fire. 
It  do  n't  cost  but  a  trifle  ;  and  I  'm  sure,  it 's 
bad  enough  to  be  poor,  without  going  with 
out  every  thing  you  want  into  the  bargain." 

Amy  smiled  at  Ruth's  logic. 

"  I  find  it  very  easy,  Ruth,  to  do  without 
a  fire ;  and  if  I  cannot  afford  it,  I  must  do 
without  it,  or  do  wrong  ;  and  that  you  would 
not  have  me  do,  I  am  sure." 


MARRIED    LIFE.  125 


Ruth  flounced  out  of  the  room  with  a  look 
of  the  most  decided  dissatisfaction. 

Before  Amy  came  down  to  breakfast,  Ruth 
bounced  up  stairs  again,  and  burst  into  her 
room.  Her  abrupt  manner  and  her  glowing 
face  startled  Amy. 

"  What 's  the  matter,  Ruth  ?  " 

"  I  guess  I  got  something  now  for  you, 
Miss  Amy,  that  you  won't  make  such  a  fuss 
about  as  you  did  about  the  fire ; "  and  she 
handed  her  a  letter  from  Edward. 

Ruth's  natural  delicacy  forbade  her  even 
casting  one  look  at  Amy,  before  she  left  her 
to  herself. 

Who  can  dare  to  describe  the  state  of  feel 
ing  of  a  true  and  tender-hearted  being  like 
Amy,  while  reading  a  letter  from  her  lover, 
from  whom  she  had  heard  no  tidings  for  a 
year  ?  There  are  pictures  called  "  The  read 
ing  the  Love-Letter. "  The  trembling  anxi 
ety,  the  untold  joy,  the  quiet  peace,  which 
follow  in  bright  and  quick  succession,  each 
telling  their  story  on  the  face  as  they  pass, 
who  can  paint  ? — who  can  describe  ?  And  if 
we  may  not  successfully  paint,  and  cannot  do 
justice  to  that  which  is  seen,  can  we  hope  to 
unveil  that  which  is  not  seen  ?  Love-letters, 
if  they  are  real  love-letters,  ought  not  to  be 


126  SKETCHES    OF 

shown  to  any  stranger ;  so  our  readers  must 
not  hope  to  see  Amy's.  It  was  only  to  be 
read,  by  those  who  saw  her  that  day,  in  her 
light,  elastic  step,  her  glowing  cheek,  her 
cheerful  voice,  and,  most  of  all,  in  the  "  har 
vest  of  her  quiet  eye,"  that  seemed  to  shed 
love  and  joy  upon  every  one  on  whom  it 
rested. 

"  I  have  a  letter  from  Edward,"  she  said, 
when  she  met  her  father  at  breakfast.  "  He 
is  very  well,  and  very  successful,  and  hopes 
to  return  in  a  year  from  next  April.  This  is 
a  little  sooner  than  he  at  first  feared  he  should 
be  able  to.  He  desires  his  respects  to  you, 
father,  and  his  love  to  you,  Ruth." 

Ruth  was  standing  still,  with  the  cofTee-pot 
in  her  hand,  to  listen  to  what  Amy  said. 

"  Thank  him  a  thousand  times,  ma'am. 
They  say  'love  is  a  present  for  a  mighty 
king ; '  and  I  'm  sure,  I  set  enough  by  Mr. 
Edward's,  though  I  'm  neither  king  nor 
queen,  nor  never  want  to  be."  Saying  this, 
Ruth  left  the  room. 

"  I  am  very  glad,"  said  Mr.  Weston,  "  that 
Edward  is  doing  so  well.  In  some  respects, 
Amy,  I  have  always  liked  this  connexion 
with  him.  Next  to  belonging  to  one  of  our 
first  families,  I  think  having  no  family  at  all 


MARRIED    LIFE.  127 

is  to  be  desired.  Don't  you  think  so,  my 
dear  ? " 

"  What,  sir  ?  "  said  Amy.  Her  thoughts 
had  wandered  far  over  the  Pacific  ocean. 

Her  father  repeated  his  remark.  "  I  fear, 
father,  that  I  am  such  a  sturdy  republican, 
that  I  should  care  more  for  what  the  family 
were  than  who  they  were." 

"  All  wrong,  my  dear  ;  when  Mr.  Selmar 
finds  that  I  am  a  poor  man  and  have  no 
money  to  give  you  when  your  are  married, 
he  will  be  very  —  " 

"  Glad  of  it,"  interrupted  Amy,  playfully. 
"  He  will  like  us  both  much  better,  father ; 
depend  upon  it." 

"  Romance  !  foolish  romance,  my  dear ; 
however,  as  Ruth  would  say,  Beggars  must 
not  be  choosers,  I  have  nothing  to  say  against 
the  match  now.  I  dare  say  by  and  bye  gentle 
men  in  the  first  classes  will  be  glad  to  marry 
their  daughters  to  grocers,  arid  tinkers,  #nd 
coblers ;  I  am  sick  of  this  new  order  of 
things." 

"  If,  my  dear  father,  coblers  and  tinkers 
should  be  well-educated  men,  surely  we  ought 
to  rejoice  ;  and  if  they  are  not,  why  should 
you  suppose  that  well-educated  women  will 
fancy  them  for  husbands  ? " 


128  SKETCHES    OF    MARRIED    LIFE. 

"  Yes  they  will,  just  to  show  their  inde 
pendence  ;  young  ladies  now  will  fancy  any 
thing  out  of  the  common  way.  The  good 
old  times  are  gone  forever.  If  a  young  man 
were  to  make  his  proposals  now,  first  to  the 
father,  the  young  lady  forsooth  would  reject 
him  on  that  very  account,  though  all  the 
wisest  and  best  men  I  have  ever  known  con 
sider  this  only  a  proper  respect  for  age  and 
authority:  the  young  people  marry  now-a- 
days  only  to  please  themselves." 

Amy  hoped  that  her  father's  charge  against 
the  young  was  deserved,  but  she  forbore  to 
say  so. 

"  One  thing,  Amy,  you  must  remember. 
Mr.  Selmar  has  promised  to  say  nothing  of 
marriage  till  he  has  made  a  fortune  ;  I  trust 
he  will  keep  his  word." 

"Rely  upon  it,  father;  Edward  will  be 
faithful  to  his  promise ; "  and  here  the  con 
versation  ended. 


CHAPTER  X. 


"  Her  aged  parent's  warning  words 
She  does  not  heed,  she  may  not  mind; 

Her  lover  sick,  all  other  fears 
Are  nought,  are  given  to  the  wind." 

NANCY'S  BROOK. 


AMY  felt  great  anxiety  about  the  effect  of 
her  letter  upon  Fanny.  "  If,"  she  would  say 
to  herself,  "  If  she  would  only  show  it  to  her 
husband,  and  it  should  be  the  means  of 
establishing  a  more  free  and  intimate  com 
munion  of  thought  between  them,  Oh  how 
happy  I  should  be !  It  was  not  many  days 
before  she  received  the  following  answer :  — 

Dear  Amy, 

I  should  have  replied  to  your  letter  before, 
but  have  been  prevented  by  company  at 
home,  and  engagements  abroad.  Such  visit 
ing,  such  running  and  driving,  such  hurrying 
to  and  fro  as  we  have  in  New  York.  There 
9 


130  SKETCHES    OF 

is  more  life  and  motion  here  in  a  week  than 
there  is  in  Boston  or  Philadelphia  in  a  year. 

Here  we  go  up  up  up, 
And  here  we  go  down  down  downy ; 
Here  we  go  backwards  and  forwards, 
And  here  we  go  round  round  roundy. 

I  mean  to  propose  to  the  city  council  to 
erect  an  arch  at  the  entrance  of  Broadway, 
and  put  upon  it  these  admirable  lines  of 
Mother  Goose,  who  must  have  had  a  prospec 
tive  vision  of  this  noisy  restless  city,  when 
she  indited  them.  But  I  am  getting  to  like 
New  York  better  than  I  thought  I  should. 
People  are  too  busy  here  to  take  much  care 
of  their  neighbors'  concerns.  Perhaps  you 
will  account  for  my  change  of  opinion 
entirely  when  I  tell  you  that  I  am  quite  a 
favorite  with  them.  They  don't  patronize 
me  ;  they  do  n't  set  out  to  make  much  of  me, 
as  Mrs.  Loveall  does;  but  they  like  me. 
We  are  out  almost  every  evening,  and  the 
little  time  that  we  are  at  home  we  are  as 
agreeable  as  possible  to  each  other,  and  al 
ways  have  some  pleasant  gossip  together.  I 
vent  all  my  naughtiness  upon  the  oddities  I 
see  in  company,  and  my  husband  fares  all 
the  better  for  it. 


MARRIED    LIFE.  131 

What  strange  creatures  we  are,  that  we 
should  go  to  people  we  care  nothing  about, 
to  learn  to  enjoy  the  society  of  those  we  love 
more  than  all  the  world  besides.  Go  abroad 
in  order  to  enjoy  home.  It  seems  a  strange 
doctrine  j  but,  rely  upon  it,  it  is  the  right  one. 
I  am  more  and  more  convinced  that  all  the 
little  difficulties  that  must  arise  between 
friends,  particularly  married  people,  must  be 
got  over  as  easily  as  possible.  Little  things 
must  be  treated  as  little  things,  forgotten, 
passed  over.  Now,  nothing  helps  us  more 
effectually  to  drive  away  those  petty  domestic 
cares  than  large  parties.  The  music,  the 
careless  chat,  and  the  champaign,  in  what 
sweet  oblivion  do  they  drown  ali  these 
matrimonial  troubles ! 

I  do  assure  you  we  come  home  from' every 
party  quite  delighted  with  each  other ;  my 
husband,  because  the  world  admires  me,  and 
I,  because  he  who  is  all  the  world  to  me,  is 
pleased.  Apropos  —  champaign.  It  reminds 
me  of  a  little  occurrence  of  the  other  day,  that 
illustrates  the  truth  of  what  I  have  just  said. 
One  of  the  unco  gude  of  this  city  called  upon 
me,  (I  wonder  she  should  notice  such  a 
sinner  as  I  am.)  In  the  course  of  conversa 
tion  this  good  lady  expressed  a  deal  of  righte- 


132  SKETCHES    OF 

cms  horror  at  what  she  called  a  too  free  use  of 
champaign,  at  parties.  My  husband  rather 
joined  in  with  her  censure,  partly  I  suppose 
from  complaisance.  The  parrot  also  did  her 
part  in  this  good  talk.  I  bore  it  for  some 
time,  but  at  last  could  stand  it  no  longer  ;  and 
said,  I  fear  rather  saucily  to  my  husband, 
"  Had  not  you  and  Mrs.  Hawkins  better  join 
the  Tetotums"?  "  The  parrot  supposing  that 
I  had  only  mistaken  the  word,  corrected  me, 
and  said  in  her  peculiar  voice  and  manner, 
"  Teetotals,  Mrs.  Roberts."  This  set  me  laugh 
ing  which  more  than  half  affronted  my  hus 
band  ;  and  after  the  good  lady  left  us  we 
might  have  had  one  of  those  pleasant  matri 
monial  duets,  had  not  the  servant  happily 
announced  the  carriage  to  take  us  to  Mr. 
Jacobs',  where  we  were  engaged  to  dine  with 
half  a  dozen  delightful  people,  not  unco  gude, 
and  where  all  was  forgotten  ;  and  even  my 
husband  became  reconciled  again  to  cham 
paign. 

But  I  have  not  yet  noticed  the  subject  of 
your  letter.  Never  suppose  it  possible,  dear 
Amy,  that  I  can  be  displeased  with  you; 
your  letter  requires  no  apology  ;  asks  for  no 
forgiveness.  The  fault  was  mine,  in  giving 
you  a  wrong  impression.  I  perceive  I  led 


MARRIED    LIFE.  133 

you  to  suppose  that  I  am  not  happy.  Surely 
I  am  as  happy  as  any  one  has  a  right  to  be. 
I  never  thought  that  there  was  any  very 
particular  meaning  in  the  word,  or  reality  in 
the  thing  ;  all  the  better  on  this  very  account, 
for  the  purpose  of  cheating  us  along  our  way. 
Every  one  sees  something  beautiful  out  of 
his  reach,  which  he  tries  to  get  hold  of,  and 
can  never  touch,  and  he  calls  it  happiness. 
It  is  the  rainbow  that  our  childish  imagina 
tions  saw  in  the  sky,  for  which  our  child 
ish  hearts  still  yearn,  and  which  our  child 
ish  hands  still  reach  after,  and  strive  to  grasp, 
in  vain  !  Alas  in  vain  !  it  melts  away  as  we 
seem  to  approach  it,  and  leaves  nothing  over 
our  heads  but  a  dull  and  darkened  sky,  and 
the  sad  chilly  feeling  of  disappointment. 

I  have  almost  done  with  this  childish 
sport,  I  do  not  intend  to  chase  rainbows  any 
longer ;  but  gather  the  flowers  in  the  garden 
of  pleasure  that  lies  at  my  feet ;  and  my  hus 
band  seems  to  be  of  the  same  mind.  Your 
letter  made  me  cry,  and  that's  not  good  for 
my  eyes.  I  did  not  show  it  to  him,  for  I 
knew  that  it  would  give  him  pain,  and  he 
would  think  immediately  that  I  had  made 
too  serious  a  matter  of  some  trifles,  and  given 
you  a  false  impression  with  regard  to  the  state 


134  SKETCHES    OF 

of  my  mind.  Still  I  loved  you,  dear  Amy,  for 
writing  it.  It  added  another  to  the  countless 
proofs  you  have  given  me  of  your  faithful 
friendship,  of  your  unwearied  care  and  ten 
derness  for  one  who  has  never  deserved  so 
rich  a  blessing.  Farewell. 

FANNY  ROBERTS. 

Amy  was  deeply  disappointed  at  the  entire 
failure  of  her  letter.  She  had  hoped  to  in 
duce  Fanny  to  think  of  the  subject  of  it. 
She  had  hitherto  been  able  to  induce  her  to 
think  of  serious  things,  if  it  were  only  for  a 
time.  She  saw  that  there  was  a  change  in 
her  for  the  worse.  What  should  she  do? 
Her  heart  ached  as  she  came  to  the  conclu 
sion  that  she  could  do  nothing  ;  as  she  re 
membered  that  important  truth  that  no  one 
can  make  another  good,  another  religious. 
She  was  grieved  and  disappointed,  but  she 
did  not  despair.  She  kept  up  faithfully,  her 
part  of  the  correspondence.  She  always  spoke 
the  truth,  painful  as  it  might  be  to  Fanny  to 
hear  it,  and  to  her  to  say  it,  but  with  an  un 
failing  love.  She  watched  with  faith  and 
hope  for  the  moment  when  she  might  by  her 
sympathy  or  her  advice  speed  her  return  to 
the  true  sources  of  happiness. 

And   thus   did  months   roll   on,   leaving 


MARRIED    LIFE.  135 

Fanny  as  they  passed,  eagerly  gathering  as 
she  had  resolved,  all  the  flowers  of  earthly 
pleasure  that  clustered  around  her  path,  some 
times  sighing  at  their  frailty,  sometimes 
starting  at  the  thorns  that  pierced  her,  yet 
still  pressing  them  to  her  unsatisfied  heart. 

With  Amy  how  different  was  the  scene. 
Separated  from  her  lover ;  anxious  for  his 
health  and  life  ;  devoting  herself  to  a  father, 
between  whom  and  herself  there  was  no 
bond  of  union,  except  that  which  always 
must  exist  between  the  parent  and  the  child  ; 
marking  each  hour  of  every  day  with  the 
cheerful  performance  of  its  appropriate  duty, 
and  reaping  a  perpetual  reward  of  unruffled 
peace.  As  the  time  approached  for  Edward's 
return,  "  Her  spirit  brightened  like  an  inward 
sun,"  she  cherished  in  her  heart  a  hope,  a 
joy,  with  which  a  stranger  meddleth  not. 

Amy  had  ceased  to  count  the  months,  even 
the  weeks  ;  she  counted  the  days,  aye  even 
the  hours  when  the  news  must  come  of  the 
arrival  of  the  vessel  in  which  her  lover  was  to 
return.  It  was  expected  every  hour.  The 
hour  came.  A  friend  sent  word  that  the  sig 
nal  was  up  for  the  Speedwell,  the  vessel  in 
which  Selmar  was  expected  to  return.  Who 
of  us  has  not  witnessed  in  himself,  or  others, 


136 


SKETCHES    OF 


that  it  is  more  easy  to  bear  suffering  than 
great  happiness  with  composure.  Is  it  that 
in  this  life  the  heart  is  more  acquainted  with 
grief  than  with  joy?  Amy  hastily  quitted 
the  room,  trembling  at  the  excess  of  her  own 
emotions,  and  shrinking  from  the  oppressive 
weight  of  a  human  eye. 

When  she  returned,  there  was  that  holy 
calmness  in  her  face  which  indicates  that  the 
peace  within  has  come  from  a  communion 
with  Him  who  is  the  strength  of  our  hearts. 

"I  suppose,  my  dear,"  said  her  father, 
"that  we  shall  soon  see  Edward." 

He  calls  him  Edward,  thought  Amy  ;  and  a 
flush  of  mingled  joy  passed  like  a  sudden 
gleam  of  sunlight  over  her  quiet  face.  An 
hour  passed ;  each  minute  lengthened  as  it 
came  and  went,  without  bringing  him. 
Presently  Ruth  who  had  heard  that  the 
Spee'd^rell  had  arrived,  came  in  to  ascertain 
what  ne^ws  there  was  of  Mr.  Edward.  "  We 
have  not  heard  from  him  yet,"  said  Amy  to 
her  e^ger  questions.  As  she  said  this  she 
kept  Her  eyes  fixed  upon  the  door.  She  began 
to  wonder  why  he  did  not  come.  She  sat 
watching  and  listening  with  intense  anxiety 
for  the  first  sound  of  her  lover's  step.  Ruth, 
who  had  found  various  excuses  for  remaining 


MARRIED    LIFE.  137 

in  the  room,  observed  this,  and  could  not  be 
silent ;  and,  forgetting  even  Mr.  Weston's 
presence,  attempted  such  consolation  as  she 
could  call  up  at  the  moment. 

"  A  watched  pot  never  boils,  Miss  Amy, 
He  's  there,  and  will  soon  come,  you  may  be 
sure ;  ill  news  travels  fast ;  you  'd  have 
heard  long  enough  ago  if  all  was  not  well 
with  Mr.  Edward." 

As  she  said  this,  the  door-bell  rang.  Ruth 
went  and  quickly  returned  with  a  letter  for 
Amy.  It  was  not  Edward's  hand-writing. 
She  broke  the  seal  and  read  it. 

"  Her  hands  did  quake 
And  tremble  like  a  leaf  of  aspin  green; 
And  troubled  blood  through  her  whole  face  was  seen 
To  come  and  go  with  tidings  from  the  heart, 
As  it  a  running  messenger  had  been." 

"  What  is  it,  my  child  ?  "  said  her  father  ,* 
"  What  is  the  matter,  dear  Miss  Amy !  "  cried 
the  tender-hearted  Ruth. 

She  put  the  letter  into  her  father's  hands. 
It  was  from  the  Captain  of  the  vessel.  He 
read  it  aloud.  It  stated  that  a  few  days  be 
fore  the  arrival  of  the  vessel,  Mr.  Selmar  had 
been  taken  ill  of  a  disease  that  at  first  resem 
bled  the  Asiatic  cholera ;  that  he  was  better. 


138  SKETCHES    OF 

but  still  quite  ill,  and  that  he  had  therefore 
been  obliged  to  send  him  ashore  at  Hospital 
Island,  where  he  knew  he  would  be  taken 
excellent  care  of;  that  as  he  knew  of  no  re 
lation  of  Mr.  Selmar's,  he  thought  it  right  to 
inform  Miss  Weston  of  his  illness,  as  he  was 
apprised  of  her  connexion  with  him.  The 
captain  added  that  the  boat  would  return  to 
the  island  with  Dr. ,  the  attendant  phy 
sician,  at  one  o'clock,  P.  M.,  and  would  take 
any  friend  or  letter  to  Mr.  Selmar. 

There  was  a  fixed  marble  paleness  in 
Amy's  face,  as  she  said  in  a  calm  determined 
manner  to  her  father,  "  I  shall  go  to  him  im 
mediately." 

"You!  go  yourself!  Amy,  are  you  in 
sane  ?  "  exclaimed  her  father. 

"  Let  me  go  !  pray  let  me  go !  "  said  Ruth, 
at  the  same  moment. 

"  No,"  answered  Amy,  "  I  must  and  shall 
go  myself ;  can  you  think  I  would  stay  away 
from  him,  or  let  any  one  take  my  place  by 
his  sick  bed  ?  " 

"  But,  Amy,  think  of  what  you  are  going 
to  do ;  it  is  an  unheard  of  thing  for  a  young 
lady  ;  and  besides  you  may  take  the  cholera 
if  he  has  it,  —  you  may  take  — " 

"  Father,"  said  Amy,  very  affectionately, 


MARRIED    LIFE.  139 

but  without  wavering  in  her  determination, 
"  I  must  go ;  fear  not  for  me,  dear  father ! 
trust  me  all  will  be  well.  I  must  go  to  him." 

"  What  will  the  world  say,  Amy  ?  " 

"I  care  not  what  it  says  !  "  and  her  ashy 
paleness  gave  place  to  a  flush  of  indignation  at 
the  thought  of  such  a  reason  for  remaining 
away  from  her  lover. 

"  Ruth  would  take  as  good  care  of  him 
and  better  than  you  could,"  said  her  father, 
"for  she  is  more  used  to  nursing." 

"There  are."  said  Amy,  "nurses  enough 
and  good  ones,  I  doubt  not,  at  the  hospital ; 
but  no  one  can  be  to  him  what  I  should  be. 
Would  I  let  another  take  care  of  you,  father, 
if  you  were  sick  ?  " 

"  But,  Amy,  think  of  it,  for  you  to  go 
alone  ;  you  a  young  lady  to  go  to  Hospital 
Island,  among  entire  strangers,  surrounded  by 
diseases  of  all  sorts,  to  nurse  a  young  man 
who  is  your  lover !  how  strange  !  " 

"  Strange,  father  !  strange  that  I  should  go 
to  him !  and  yet  you  say  he  is  my  lover ! 
Strange  indeed  it  would  be  if  I  did  not  go. 
Have  I  not  openly  acknowledged  that  I  love 
him  better  than  all  the  world  besides  ?  and 
shall  I,  when  he  returns  to  his  country  dan 
gerously  ill,  without  a  relation  in  the  world, 


140  SKETCHES    OF 

shall  I  stay  away  from  him,  because  a  certain 
ceremony  and  form  of  law  has  not  been  per 
formed  that  in  the  world's  opinion  gives  me 
the  privilege  of  taking  care  of  him  ?  Would 
you  have  me  so  heartless,  father  ? " 

"  My  dear  Amy,  the  customs  of  society 
require  the  strictest  precision  in  a  young 
lady's  conduct  before  marriage." 

"  Odious  customs  of  society  !  "  exclaimed 
Amy,  "  teaching  prudery  and  hypocrisy  the 
true  elements  and  foundation  principle  of  all 
vice,  profaning  holy  nature,  and  by  always 
supposing,  taking  the  readiest  way,  to  awaken 
the  impure  thoughts  which  they  imagine  to 
exist.  A  young  lady  may  go  to  parties  with 
her  neck  and  shoulders  all  bare,  and  dance 
with  young  and  old  men  of  almost  any 
character,  and  the  customs  of  society  are  not 
outraged ;  but  if  she  goes,  in  the  sanctity  of 
innocence  and  love,  to  watch  over  her  lover 
on  his  sick  bed,  its  nice  sense  of  propriety  is 
wounded.  Thank  God,  I  care  not  for  it  now, 
father.  What  is  the  opinion  of  the  world  to 
me  now  ?  what  will  it  be  to  me  if  he  should 
—  oh  my  father !  remember  when  you  were 
a  young  man,  and  loved  her  who  is  in  hea 
ven." 

Amy's  over-excited  feelings  were  relieved 


MARRIED    LIFE.  141 

by  a  passionate  flood  of  tears,  as  the  thought 
of  her  mother  came  to  her  mind,  and  she 
endeavored  to  recover  her  composure. 

"  I  wish  my  child,"  said  her  father,  much 
softened,  "  that  your  mother  were  indeed  here 
to  go  with  you,  if  you  do  still  insist  upon 
going,  which  I  cannot  approve  of." 

"  Her  spirit  will  be  with  me,  father  ;  trust 
me  to  its  guidance  and  protection.  Fear 
nothing  for  me  !  " 

Mr.  Weston  made  no  further  resistance  to 
Amy's  determination.  He  had  learned  that 
it  was  in  vain  to  oppose  his  authority  or  that 
of  public  opinion,  to  her  convictions  of  duty. 
He  told  her  that  if  she  was  determined  upon 
such  a  strange  step,  he  should,  as  her  father, 
do  all  he  could  to  save  her  from  the  severe 
remarks  which  the  world  would  make  upon 
her  conduct.  He  went  himself  and  obtained 
permission  of  the  proper  authorities  for  her  to 
go  to  the  island,  and  called  upon  Dr.  S.  the 
hospital  physician,  and  ascertained  that  he 
was  a  married  man,  and  that  his  wife  would 
be  a  friend  to  Amy ;  that  there  was  a  respec 
table  matron  who  superintended  the  hospital, 
and  with  whom  she  could  board  during  the 
time  it  might  be  necessary  for  her  to  remain 
at  the  island.  The  boat  was  to  return  at  one 


142  SKETCHES    OF 

o'clock,  and  Amy  made  what  arrangements 
were  necessary  to  go  at  that  time.  She  gave 
all  her  directions  to  Ruth  about  the  manage 
ment  of  the  family,  and  care  of  her  father 
during  her  absence,  with  such  precision,  such 
calmness,  that  a  common  observer  would  not 
have  perceived  the  deep  under  current  of  in 
tense  feeling  on  which  her  soul  was  borne 
away  from  all  present  things ;  and  which 
gave  her  a  sort  of  strange  unconsciousness 
while  she  was  attending  to  the  performance 
of  these  duties. 

"Here  ma'am,"  said  Ruth,  "I  have 
brought  you  something  to  eat  before  you  go, 
for  it  will  really  be  ridiculous  for  you  to  go 
among  all  them  sick  folks  with  nothing  but 
trouble  to  stay  your  stomach."  As  she  said 
this,  Ruth  placed  a  waiter  covered  with  the 
most  tempting  luncheon  which  her  art  and 
knowledge  of  Amy's  tastes  enabled  her  to 
provide. 

"  Thank  you,  Ruth,  but  I  fear  I  have  not 
time  to  take  anything." 

"  Prayers  and  provender  never  hindered  a 
journey,  Miss  Amy  ;  I  warrant  you  '11  not  feel 
like  eating  dinner  at  the  hospital ;  and  how 
are  you  going  to  do  anything  when  you  get 
there,  if  you  do  n't  eat  something  to  strength 
en  you  before  you  go  ? " 


MARRIED    LIFE.  143 

"  Perhaps  you  are  right,"  said  Amy,  and 
she  sat  down  mechanically  and  ate  some 
thing.  There  was  a  childlike  submission  to 
Ruth's  judgment  in  her  manner  of  taking  the 
food  which  she  offered,  which  was  very 
gratifying  to  the  vanity  as  well  as  affection 
of  this  most  excellent  personage,  and  encour 
aged  her  to  indulge  her  talking  propensity. 

"  I  am  proper  glad,  Miss  Amy,  that  you 
have  determined  to  go  down  to  the  hospital 
and  see  to  Mr.  Edward  yourself,  without 
minding  what  folks  say.  And  what  if  they 
should  say  hard  things  against  you  ?  scandal 
is  like  dirt ;  it  will  rub  out  when  it  dries.  I 
was  in  the  room,  ma'am,  when  you  said  all 
that  to  Mr.  Weston  about  not  caring  so  much 
for  the  world  as  you  did  for  Mr.  Edward ; 
and  it  put  me  in  mind  of  what  Aunt  Polly 
said  once  when  folks  talked  to  her  about 
what  the  world  would  say  to  her  for  tending 
her  sweetheart  in  a  fever.  She  said,  '  I  have 
long  ago  done  caring  for  the  asses,  and  care 
only  for  Saul ;  '  she  was  a  master  hand  for 
quoting  scripture.  Oh  how  she  did  take  on 
when  he  died  !  I  was  dreadful  sorry  for  her ; 
but  it  was  a  great  comfort  for  her  to  know 
that  she  had  done  every  thing  for  him  that 
mortal  could  do  ;  but  man  provides,  and  God 


144  SKETCHES    OF    MARRIED    LIFE. 

decides  !  But  there  's  the  bell,  I  must  go  to 
it." 

She  returned  to  say  that  the  Dr.  was  at 
the  door,  and  ready  to  attend  Miss  Weston  to 
the  boat. 

As  she  put  her  keys  into  Ruth's  hand,  Amy 
said  to  her,  "  I  know  Ruth  that  you  will  take 
the  best  care  of  my  father.  Be  sure  to  re 
mind  him  daily  of  his  ride.  Have  no  fear 
for  me." 

She  could  not  speak  to  her  father;  she 
kissed  him  and  hurried  off. 


CHAPTER  XL 


"  The  billows  they  tumble  with  might,  with  might, 
She  flings  out  her  voice  to  the  darksome  night; 
Her  bosom  is  heaving  with  sorrow." 

WALLENSTEIS. 


AMY  was  soon  seated  in  the  boat,  by  the 
side  of  the  doctor,  on  her  way  to  the  island. 
After  having  ascertained  from  him  every 
thing  she  could,  with  regard  to  Edward's 
case,  she  sunk  into  a  profound  silence. 

The  air  was  balmy  soft.  Here  and  there 
a  light,  fleecy  cloud  floated  in  the  blue  depths 
of  the  quiet  heavens.  The  boat,  as  it  danced 
along,  looked  like  a  plaything  upon  the  rest 
less,  trembling  waves  of  the  glad  ocean.  All 
around  looked  bright  and  glorious,  but  all 
was  unheeded  by  Amy.  She  saw  not  the 
glittering  spires,  nor  the  bristling  masts  at 
the  noble  wharves  of  the  city.  The  neigh 
boring  heights,  the  green  islands,  the  white 
sails,  were  to  her  as  if  they  were  not.  She 
heard  not  the  occasional  remarks  of  the  doc 
tor,  kindly  intended  to  interest  her,  and  help 
10 


146  SKETCHES    OF 

*    •    "  'fc 

her  bear  her  anxious'thoughts.  There  was  an 
unutterable,  an  overwhelming  feeling  in  her 
heart,  that  made  her  unconscious  of  every 
thing  around  Jier.  Deep  called  unto  deep  in 
her  soul.  She  sat  in  silence,  looking  fixedly 
at  the  island  which  they  were  fast  approach 
ing,  as  though  in  that  little  spot  was  concen 
trated  atf  that  life  could  give  her  of  joy  or 
sorrow.  ' 

They  arrived.  The  doctor  introduced  her 
to  the  Jrind  matron  of  the  hospital,  and  left 
her  while  he  went  to  visit  his  patient,  saying 
that  he  would  soon  be  with  her  again.  He 
returned  with  a  smile  on  his  face,  that  was 
like  life  to  Amy's  heart. 

"I  find  Mr.  Selmar  better,"  he  said;  "at 
least,  as  far  as  I  can  judge  for  the  present ; 
for  he  is  asleep,  which  is  a  good  symptom. 
If  you  can  walk  like  a  spirit,  so  as  to  be  sure 
not  to  awake  him,  you  can  go  and  look  at 
him ;  but  if  he  should  awake,  you  must  be 
sure  that  you  leave  him  without  his  recog 
nizing  you,  as  he  has  no  idea  of  seeing  you, 
and  it  would  be  a  dangerous  excitement  to 
him." 

Amy  promised  to  obey  his  directions,  and 
followed  the  doctor  to  her  lover's  apartment. 
The  door  was  open.  She  entered  the  dark- 


MARRIED    LIFE.  147 

ened  room  on  tiptoe,  scarcely  breathing,  lest 
she  should  awake  him.  She  came  to  the 
bed-side.  It  was  so  dark  she  could  not  dis 
tinguish  anything ;  she  must  wait  till  her 
eye  adapts  its  vision  to  the  dim  light.  O, 
how  her  soul  was  agonized,  lest  he  should 
awake  before  she  had  seen  and  been  satisfied 
that  it  was  indeed  the  face  of  her  dearest 
earthly  friend  that  she  was  gazing  at !  Pres 
ently,  a  shadowy  outline  seemed  to  emerge 
from  the  darkness.  Still  she  could  not  rec 
ognize  a  single  feature  of  the  face.  It  grew 
a  little  more  distinct.  She  stooped  over  him, 
straining  every  faculty  to  see.  He  moved 
his  arm  round,  and  his  hand  grasped  a  fold 
of  her  dress.  She  stood  still  as  death,  lest 
he  should  awake.  He  was  quiet  again,  and 
his  fingers  relaxed  their  hold.  Again  she 
stooped  over  him,  and  her  whole  figure 
seemed  instinct  with  the  desire  to  see  that 
beloved  face.  At  last,  deathly  pale,  and 
wasted,  his  eyes  sunken  in  their  sockets,  she 
saw  ^him  distinctly  —  the  same,  only  so 
changed  by  disease ! 

For  many  minutes,  Amy  stood  breathless 
and  motionless,  gazing,  with  her  whole  soul, 
upon  her  sleeping  lover,  when  he  suddenly 
started,  and  awoke.  She  left  the  room 


148  SKETCHES    OF 

before  he  perceived  her.  She  met  the  phy 
sician  at  the  door,  who  entered  without 
speaking.  With  the  most  intense  anxiety, 
Amy  stood  waiting  in  the  passage-way  for 
the  return  of  the  doctor.  She  saw,  at  the 
first  glance  that  she  caught  of  his  face,  as  he 
came  from  the  apartment,  that  his  decision 
was  unfavorable  to  her  hopes.  She  felt  her 
lips  and  tongue  grow  rigid,  as  she  attempted 
to  speak  and  ask  what  her  heart  so  trembled 
to  know. 

"  Cannot  I  go  in  ?     Is  he  not  better  ? " 

"  I  am  disappointed,"  said  the  doctor,  "  at 
the  state  in  which  I  find  him.  ,  I  thought  he 
would  awake  better ;  it  is  not  so.  I  think  it 
would  not  be  well  for  him  to  see  you  now  ; 
any  great  excitement  might  injure  him.  I 
dare  not  venture  it.  He  is  more  ill  than  he 
has  been.  There  must  be  some  change 
soon.  We  must  hope  for  the  best.  To 
night  will  be  the  critical  time." 

"Oh!  let  me  watch  by  him  to-night," 
said  Amy.  * 

"  I  fear  that  he  would  recognize  you ;  for 
he  has  his  senses  perfectly.  He  has  a  most 
excellent  nurse ;  and  I  will  be  with  him 
myself  as  much  as  possible,  and  you  shall  be 
kept  informed  of  his  state.  Let  me  conduct 


MARRIED    LIFE.  149 

you  to  the  apartment  which  Mrs. has 

appropriated  to  you." 

Amy  unconsciously  suffered  herself  to  be 
led  to  her  room.  As  soon  as  she  was  alone, 
it  seemed  as  if  her  overwrought  spirit  sud 
denly  lost  all  possession  of  itself.  Grief,  fear, 
and  despair,  took  alternate  possession  of  her 
soul. 

"  Why,"  cried  she,  "  did  I  submit  so  tamely 
to  be  taken  away  from  him  ?  Why  did  I  not 
remain,  in  spite  of  the  doctor's  prohibition  ? 
I  shall  never  hear  him  speak  my  name  again. 
If  I  could  only  hear  him  breathe !  —  if  I  could 
but  see  him  move,  and  know  that  he  is  yet 
alive  !  O,  God  !  how  can  I  bear  this  terrible 
suspense?  If  he  should  die,  O,  Father  of 
mercies,  let  me  die  with  him !  Why  is  it 
that  thou  dost  implant  these  deathless  affec 
tions  in  our  hearts,  and  then  snatch  away 
from  us  the  beings  whom  thou  thyself  hast 
bidden  us  to  love  ?  Oh !  this  sorrow  is  greater 
than  I  can  bear !  " 

Tears  —  blessed  tears  at  last  came  to  her 
relief,  and  Amy's  soul  grew  more  calm.  All 
was  still  in  the  house,  save  the  occasional, 
careful  step  of  some  one  of  the  nurses,  upon 
some  errand  for  her  patient.  Now,  for  the 
first  time,  Amy  heard,  near  by,  the  slow, 


150  SKETCHES    OF 

solemn  roar  of  the  eternal  waves  of  ocean. 
As  she  listened,  the  sound  seemed  to  come 
nearer  and  nearer ;  and  the  tumult  in  her 
heart  grew  calmer  and  calmer,  as  the  thought 
of  that  great  Being,  whose  voice  can  still  the 
restless  tide  of  human  passions,  resumed  its 
place  in  her  mind.  She  approached  the 
window.  The  distant  spires  of  the  city  — 
the  green  islands,  looking  like  emeralds  deck 
ing  the  bosom  of  the  deep  —  the  countless 
white  sails  —  the  blue,  trembling  waves  of 
the  glad  ocean  —  the  piles  of  fleecy  clouds  — 
all  were  bathed  in  a  rich  flood  of  golden  light 
from  the  setting  sun.  There  was  a  fulness 
of  life  —  a  magnificence  of  beauty,  and  gran 
deur,  and  loveliness,  spread  before  her,  that 
seemed  to  Amy's  soul  like  a  new-revelation 
of  the  love  of  God. 

"  Surely,"  said  Amy,  "  he  does  not  will 
ingly  afflict  us.  As  a  father  pitieth  his  chil 
dren,  so  pitieth  he  us.  Shall  I  fear  Him  who 
is  all  love  ?  Did  not  he,  who  walked  upon 
the  tossing  billows  of  the  sea,  pass  erect,  also, 
over  the  troubled  waves  of  sorrow  and  suffer 
ing  in  this  mortal  life  ?  Did  he  not  say,  '  Be 
not  afraid  ? '  Are  not  our  affections  more 
enduring,  more  deep  and  boundless,  than  this 
wide,  unfathomed  sea,  or  these  illimitable 


MARRIED    LIFE.  151 

skies  ?  Is  not  the  true  heart  every  moment 
declaring  its  own  immortality  ?  Can  the  cir 
cumstance  of  what  we  call  death  destroy  it  ? 
Did  we  not  know,  when  we  first  loved,  that 
the  sword  of  separation  must  enter  every 
heart?  but  we  thought  not  so  soon.  Yet, 
what  is  soon  or  late,  when  eternity  is  the 
question  ?  Still,  it  is  bitter  to  part  now. 
May  I  not  pray  as  Jesus  prayed,  — {  If  it  be 
possible,  let  this  cup  pass  from  me  ? '  " 

As  Amy  was  thus  communing  with  God 
and  her  own  soul,  her  eyes  fixed  upon  the 
glorious  scene  which  first  attracted  her  at 
tention,  the  sunlight  gradually  died  away, 
and  then  came  on  the  soft,  gray  twilight,  till 
the  stars,  one  after  another,  seemed  to  open 
their  bright  eyes  upon  the  quiet  waters,  and 

"  The  moon  at  length,  apparent  queen, 
Unveiled  her  peerless  light,  and  o'er  the  dark 
Her  silver  mantle  threw." 

All  rebellious  feelings  were  rebuked  in  Amy's 
heart,  and  a  holy  trust  and  a  quiet  submission 
had  taken  their  place,  when  she  was  startled 
by  hearing  a  knock  at  her  door.  It  was  the 
matron  of  the  hospital,  who  had  come  to 
invite  her  to  join  her  at  her  evening  meal. 
She  added,  that  the  doctor  was  to  take  tea 


152 


SKETCHES    OF 


with  her,  and  then  would  tell  her  what  he 
thought  of  Mr.  Selmar's  present  state.  They 
had  been  trying  some  other  remedies,  from 
which  he  hoped  some  good  effects. 

"  Whoever  comes  to  a  hospital,  miss,"  said 
the  matron,  "  must  keep  up  a  good  heart,  and 
take  care  of  herself,  or  she  will  soon  be  one 
of  the  patients.  Many  get  well  who  are  as 
sick  as  Mr.  Selmar.  He  is  young,  and  the 
chances  are  in  his  favor." 

Amy  saw  that  it  was,  in  fact,  pity  for  her, 
that  induced  the  good  matron  to  assume  a 
sort  of  roughness  of  manner,  which  she 
thought  would  help  her  guest  to  endure  the 
trial  that  awaited  her.  She  also  read,  in  the 
tender  respect  of  the  doctor's  manner,  and 
compassionate  tone  of  his  voice,  an  indication 
of  his  fears  lest  the  sorrow  she  dreaded  would 
fall  upon  her. 

"  If,"  said  the  doctor,  "  the  remedies  we 
apply  to-night  should  be  successful,  and  if 
his  constitution  is  strong  enough  to  carry  him 
through  a  few  more  hours  of  suffering,  I  shall 
feel  sanguine  of  his  recovery." 

He  urged  Miss  Weston  to  try  to  take  some 
rest,  and  promised  to  send  her  word  by  the 
nurse,  during  the  night,  how  his  patient  was. 
With  this  promise,  Amy  returned  td  her  room. 


MARRIED    LIFE.  153 

Much  did  she  suffer  during  those  dark  hours  ; 
but,  as  she  sat  all  night  long,  looking  up  at 
the  glowing  heavens,  and  listening  to  the 
perpetual  hymn  of  the  waves,  hope  and  peace 
settled  more  deeply  and  permanently  in  the 
recesses  of  her  soul.  The  spirit  of  resigna 
tion  seemed  to  descend  upon  her  from  the 
silent  skies.  It  was  past  midnight,  when 
she  heard  a  footstep  approaching  her  room. 
She  quickly  opened  the  door.  It  was  the 
matron. 

"  I  thought,"  said  the  good  lady,  "  that,  as 
you  were  so  anxious,  I  would  come  and  tell 
you  about  the  gentleman  myself,  as  I  was 
up,  and  had  been  in  to  see  him.  He  is  rather 
better,  and  the  doctor  says  every  thing  seems 
more  favorable,  though  he  cannot  say  he  is 
out  of  danger  yet.  Now,  dear,  do  go  to  bed. 
He  '11  get  well,  I  dare  say." 

The  next  news  was  at  daylight,  and  was 
still  more  encouraging  ;  and  in  the  morning, 
at  breakfast,  the  doctor  pronounced  him  de 
cidedly  better. 

"  I  think,"  said  the  doctor,  "  that  I  might 
venture,  in  the  course  of  this  morning,  to  let 
Mr.  Selmar  know  you  are  here,  and  even  to 
let  you  see  him,  if  you  could  be  very  calm 
and  judicious." 


154  SKETCHES    OF 

"lam  sure  I  could,"  said  Amy.  "Have 
no  fear  for  my  good  behavior." 

The  doctor  said  that  he  had  left  him 
asleep,  and  that  he  would  let  him  know  she 
was  there  when  he  awoke,  if  he  should  be 
really  better. 

"  You  are  better,"  said  the  doctor  to  Mr. 
Selmar,  when  he  awoke. 

"  O,  yes,"  he  replied ;  "  I  am  myself 
again." 

"  Not  quite,"  said  the  doctor.  "  It  will  be 
a  long  while  before  you  are  well.  The  cap 
tain  of  your  vessel  has  informed  your  friends 
in  Boston  that  you  were  detained  here  by 
illness." 

A  faint  color  overspread  Edward's  face, 
and  passed  instantly  away,  as  the  doctor  said 
this. 

"  Have  you  any  friends  that  you  should 
.like  to  see  here  particularly?"  asked  the 
doctor. 

"  Yes  —  one  ;  but  I  suppose  it  would  be  in 
vain  for  me  to  desire  it." 

"  Why  so,  my  friend  ?  " 

"  It  is  a  lady  to  whom  I  am  engaged.  Her 
father  would  never  consent  to  her  coming." 
As  Edward  said  this,  his  face  grew  deadly 
pale  again. 


'  ; 

MARRIED    LIFE.  155 

"  Do  you  think,"  said  the  doctor,  "  that 
you  could  bear  the  excitement  of  seeing  her, 
if  she  were  to  come  ?  " 

"  O,  yes !  yes !  it  would  restore  me  to  life. 
When  I  am  asleep,  I  dream  she  is  by  my 
bed-side.  I  dreamed  yesterday  that  she  had 
come  to  me  ;  but  it  would  be  too  great  hap 
piness  to  be  real." 

"  I  think  not.  I  think  you  may  see  her," 
said  the  doctor. 

"  How  could  I  ?  Would  she  come  ?  Is  it 
possible  ?  " 

"  Yes.  She  is  now  on  the  island  ;  and  if 
you  could  promise  to  behave  like  a  rational 
being,  and  keep  yourself  calm,  you  may  see 
her.  I  think  it  would  not  hurt  you." 

"  Thank  God  !  thank  God  !  This  is  more 
than  I  hoped ;  "  and  as  he  clasped  his  hands, 
and  looked  up  to  heaven,  he  wept  like  a 
child.  "  I  feel  that  I  am  very  weak,"  he 
said,  after  a  few  minutes ;  "  but  it  will  do 
me  good  to  see  her,  and  I  will  be  quite  calm." 

"  Refrain  even  from  speaking,"  said  the 
doctor.  "  Remember  your  life  is  at  stake. 
I  will  bring  your  friend  to  you." 

"  Fear  not,"  said  Amy,  as  the  doctor  was 
urging  her  to  be  very  calm.  "  I  will  be  as 
quiet  and  discreet  as  you  can  desire." 


156  SKETCHES    OF 

Softly  and  quietly  she  approached  Edward's 
bed-side.  As  she  stooped  to  kiss  his  feverish 
lips,  she  whispered,  "  Remember,  dear  Ed 
ward,  you  must  be  very  still  and  calm,  or  I 
cannot  be  with  you.  Say  nothing  now." 

Edward  did  not  attempt  to  utter  a  word ; 
he  could  not.  He  took  her  hand  —  covered 
it  with  kisses ;  he  put  it  on  his  dry,  aching 
forehead,  and  he  felt  as  if  it  had  a  healing 
power  in  it.  As  Amy  stooped  over  her 
lover's  pillow,  looking  intently  at  him,  her 
whole  soul  in  her  face,  it  seemed  as  if  a  light 
went  forth  from  it,  that  might  have  revived 
the  dying. 

"  O,  Amy,"  he  said,  "  that  look  alone 
would  restore  me." 

"Hush!  hush!"  she  said,  "or  I  must 
leave  you." 

The  doctor  was  right  in  his  opinion  that 
Edward's  disease  had  .begun  to  yield  ;  but 
his  residence  in  the  hot  climate  of  Canton 
had  so  deranged  his  system,  that  he  required 
the  strictest  attention  and  the  most  watchful 
care,  to  prevent  a  relapse,  which  would,  in 
all  probability,  have  been  fatal.  How  often 
did  Amy  rejoice  that  she  was  present,  to 
administer  all  those  little,  nameless  comforts 
which  contribute  so  much  to  the  relief  of  the 


MARRIED    LIFE.  157 

patient,  during  the  long  hours  of  feverish 
restlessness,  which  belong  to  a  lingering  re 
covery  from  severe  illness!  She  read  to 
him ;  she  sang  to  him ;  she  sat  silent  with 
him,  at  her  sewing-work,  for  hours  together. 
As  he  became  able  to  engage  in  conversation, 
she  told  him  of  her  father's  loss  of  property, 
at  which  Edward  could  not  help  rejoicing. 
She  also  acquainted  him  with  her  anxiety 
about  Fanny  and  her  husband. 

One  or  two  letters  passed  between  Amy 
and  Fanny  during  her  stay  at  the  island,  one 
of  which,  from  Fanny,  we  transcribe. 

Dear  Amy, 

I  am  rejoiced  to  hear  that  Edward  is 
really  getting  well.  How  the  good  folks, 
who  take  such  excellent  care  of  their  neigh 
bors,  will  stare,  and  wonder,  and  moralize  at 
your  conduct,  in  going  to  Hospital  Island,  to 
take  care  of  your  sick  lover !  Mrs.  Lovell, 
in  especial ;  with  her  sentimentality  on  the 
one  hand,  and  her  worldly-mi  ndedness  on 
the  other,  how  can  she  find  safety  in  any 
opinion  upon  the  subject  ?  She  will  have  to 
maintain  a  sort  of  armed  neutrality,  ready  to 
side  with  whichever  shall  prove  not  the 
weaker,  but  the  stronger  party. 


158  SKETCHES    OF 

How  is  it,  Amy,  that  I  am  not  jealous  of 
you?     When   I   told   Mr.    Roberts  of  your 
going  to  the  island,  to   take   care   of  your 
lover,  in  spite  of  contagion  and  scandal,  he 
answered,  "If  it  were  any  other  woman  I 
know,  I  should  be  surprised ;  but  Amy  always 
acts   with   sense   and   feeling,  and   without 
asking  what  people  will   say."     It  is  very 
true,  you  are  the    only  woman  he  knows, 
who  he  thinks  always  acts  right.     Why  did 
he  not  try  to  marry  you  ?     Edward  and  I 
might  have  consoled  ourselves,  perhaps,  by 
making  the  best  or  the  worst  of  each  other. 
He  is  rather  of  the  touch-me-not  order ;  and 
we    should    have    quarrelled    merrily   from 
morning  till  night,  one  day,  and  been  de 
lightful  with  all  our  might  to  each  other  all 
the  next,  to  make  up  for  it.     What  a  pleasing 
variety  our  lives  would  have  presented  !     We 
should  not  have  had  any  long  accounts  on 
hand,  but  have  paid  off  every  charge  as  we 
went  along.     Now,  my  husband  has  terrible 
arrears  against  me ;  and,  ah !  if  he  ever  calls 
upon  me  for  a  just  settlement,  what  a  poor 
bankrupt  I  shall  be !     Bankrupt,  alas !  in  that 
only  wealth    that  can   never  be   recovered 
when  once  lost  —  happiness !    Happiness !  that 
word  invented  by  some  star-gazing  poet ;  all 


MARRIED    LIFE.  159 

the  better  for  his  purpose,  because  it  is  so 
purely  ideal.  But,  I  am  turning  away  from 
my  subject,  which  was,  the  moral  uses  of 
quarrels  among  friends.  I  have  changed  my 
opinion  upon  this  subject.  I  used  to  think 
that  it  was  best  to  pass  over  slight  offences ; 
but  I  tell  you,  Amy,  a  little,  short,  well-bred, 
matrimonial  quarrel,  though  somewhat  disa 
greeable  at  first,  is  useful  in  the  end.  It  is 
like  a  dose  of  cremor  tartar ;  it  sweetens  the 
blood.  Or,  if  you  will  have  a  more  poetical 
comparison,  it  is  like  a  slight  thunder-storm  ; 
and  the  clearing  up  is  so  beautiful !  and  then 
comes  the  rainbow  of  reconciliation  ;  and  the 
air  is  so  much  purer  and  fresher  afterwards  ! 
I  am  enamored  of  the  very  thought  of  a 
quarrel  with  my  husband.  But  he  never 
gives  me  an  opportunity.  He  never  speaks ; 
and  he  is  so  civil,  and  so  serious.  If  he 
would  only  box  my  ears,  or  whip  me  with  a 
stick  as  big,  or  bigger,  than  the  law  allows,  I 
should  —  "be  very  angry,"  you  will  say. 
True ;  but  this  icy  coldness  would  vanish  ; 
this  death-like  stillness,  this  portentous  si 
lence,  would  be  broken,  that  seems  .to  me  to 
increase  hourly,  and  as  if  it  would  finally 
turn  me  into  stone. . 

Do  you  know  I  begin  to  think  that  the 


160  SKETCHES    OF 

housekeeper  must  have  some  strange  influ 
ence  ?  I  never  felt  so  till  I  came  here  ;  and 
she  looks  unlike  any  human  thing  I  ever 
knew.  The  house  is  so  still,  that  you  hear 
her  terrible  tread,  in  the  remotest  part  of  it. 
My  husband  is  with  his  father  (whose  health 
fails  daily)  nearly  all  the  time ;  and  I  am 
obliged  to  keep  Willy  in  his  nursery,  lest  he 
should  make  a  noise.  When  I  can  bear  it 
no  longer,  I  go  out,  or  I  should  go  mad ; 
every  thing  is  so  dull,  so  solemn,  so  strange. 
My  husband  insists  upon  accepting  every 
invitation  ;  but  when  it  is  time  to  go,  he 
says,  "Fanny,  I  hope  you -will  go.  I  must 
stay  with  my  father."  If  I  object  to  leaving 
him,  he  urges  me  to  go,  and  says,  "  There  is 
no  reason  why  you  should  stay  at  home.  I 
wish  you  to  have  all  the  pleasure  you  can. 
I  know  it  is  very  dull  here.  You  will  oblige 
me  by  going  ;  "  and  so  I  go ;  but  I  have  no 
heart  in  it.  Indeed,  I  have  no  heart  in  any 
thing.  My  beautiful,  my  precious  boy,  even 
he  makes  me  cry.  I  cannot  tell  why,  but  so 
it  is.  He  now  runs  alone,  and  begins  to  talk. 
The  other  day,  when  he  was  sitting  in  my 
lap,  the  tears  were  running  fast  (I  cannot 
tell  why)  down  my  cheeks.  He  took  up 
his  little  frock,  and  wiped  them,  and  said, 


MARRIED    LIFE.  161 

"  Mamma  hurt  ?  Do  n't  cry,  mamrua ;  I  call 
papa  to  kiss  the  place,  and  make  it  well." 
O,  Amy,  it  seemed,  when  he  said  this,  as  if 
my  silly  heart  would  break.  Just  then,  my 
husband  came  in,  and  the  child  ran  and 
pulled  him  towards  me.  I  know  not  what 
evil  spirit  possessed  me  ;  but  when  he  asked 
me  what  was  the  matter,  I  answered  him  in 
a  reproachful  tone,  "  O,  nothing ;  only  I  am 
homesick  and  heart-sick,"  and  hurried  out  of 
the  room  to  hide  my  tears.  I  was  ashamed 
and  grieved  at  my  urikindness  to  him,  and 
came  back,  a  minute  afterwards,  to  tell  him 
so ;  but  he  had  gone  into  his  father's  room, 
and  I  did  not  see  him  again  till  dinner-time. 
When  he  met  me  then,  it  was  with  that 
frigid,  silent  politeness,  which  is  worse  to  me 
than  the  rudest  censure.  If  that  bird  of  evil 
omen  had  not  been  present,  perhaps  I  might 
have  conquered  my  pride,  and  tried  to  melt 
the  icy  coldness  that  was  so  repulsive  to  me  ; 
but  he  kept  her  in  conversation  on  purpose,  I 
believe,  after  dinner,  in  order  to  avoid  a  tete- 
a-tete  with  me.  In  the  evening,  I  went  to 

the  opera  with  Mrs. ,  (who  is  always 

delightful,)  and   forgot   for  a  while,  in  the 
delicious  music  I  heard  there,  the  pain  and 
folly  of  the  morning.     Now,  if  he  had  only 
11 


162  SKETCHES    OF 

put  me  in  the  closet,  as  we  do  a  naughty 
child,  saying,  too,  with  the  true  nursery  tone, 
"  Now  you  have  something  to  cry  for,"  and 
kept  me  there  till  I  had  promised  to  be  good, 
how  much  easier  it  would  have  been  to  bear 
it !  I  always  hated  politeness,  and  now  more 
than  ever. 

I  tell  you,  Amy,  that  what  is  called  good 
breeding  and  civility  is  the  bane  of  all  real 
happiness  at  home.  If  Roberts  and  I  had 
both  been  brought  up  to  the  tailor's  trade,  we 
should  enjoy  ourselves  as  married  people 
ought  to.  If  I  did  wrong,  my  husband  would 
shake  the  yard-measure  at  me,  and  I  should 
take  the  press-board  to  defend  myself,  and 
then  we  should  laugh  at  our  own  nonsense, 
and  kiss  and  be  friends.  Whatever  else  you 
and  Edward  may  do,  after  you  are  married, 
avoid  politeness  more  than  you  would  a 
pestilence. 

I  ought,  dear  Amy,  to  close  my  letter  after 
giving  you  such  a  piece  of  sage  advice.  You 
must  not  suppose  I  am  insensible  to,  or  have 
forgotten  all  that  you  have  suffered  during 
Edward's  illness,  or  all  you  now  enjoy.  I 
have  still  a  sort  of  traditionary  recollection  of 
something  called  happiness,  by  which  I  can 


MARRIED    LIFE.  163 

measure  your  present  emotions  ;  and  my  love 

for   you  is  true  and  unchanged.     Farewell. 

Ever  yours, 

FANNY  ROBERTS. 

As  soon  as  the  physician  pronounced  Ed 
ward  to  be  so  far  well  as  that  his  recovery 
did  not  depend  upon  careful  nursing,  Amy 
thought  it  right  to  return  home.  A  week 
after  he  was  able  to  follow  her.  Even  Mr. 
Weston  received  him  with  a  cordial  welcome, 
that  seemed  to  have  no  reference  to  the 
opinion  of  the  world,  and  that  forgot  to  ask 
the  sanction  of  the  wisest  and  best. 

Ruth  was  beside  herself  with  joy,  at  seeing 
him  again.  "  Really,  Miss  Amy,"  she  said, 
"  I  was  so  glad  to  see  him  that  I  should  have 
given  him  a  good  hug,  if  I  had  not  thought 
it  would  look  ridiculous." 


CHAPTER  XII. 


"  The  best  friends  are  those  who  stimulate 
each  other  to  good." 

ARABIAN  PROVERB. 


THE  property  which  Edward  had  acquired 
during  his  absence  barely  satisfied  Mr.  Wes- 
ton's  ambition.  When  he  and  Amy  asked 
his  consent  to  their  marriage,  he  answered 
that  "  He  thought  in  some  respects  it  would 
be  as  well  that  the  ceremony  should  be  per 
formed  soon  ;  for,  as  his  daughter  had  shown 
to  the  whole  world,  in  such  an  unprecedented 
way,  that  he  was  her  decided  choice,  it  was 
not  probable  now  that  she  would  alter  her 
mind ;  and  that  as  Mr.  Selmar,  though  not 
rich,  had  now  a  respectable  property,  he  had 
no  further  objection  to  make  to  their  mar 
riage."  He  even  went  so  far  as  to  give 
Edward  his  hand  in  what  he  intended  for  a 
paternal  manner,  and  to  express  an  unquali 
fied  wish  for  their  future  happiness.  They 


* 

SKETCHES    OF   MARRIED    LIFE.  165 

resolved  to  dispense  with  all  unmeaning 
parade,  all  senseless  forms  at  their  marriage. 

"As  I  understand  this  ceremony,"  said 
Edward,  £:  it  is  publicly  and  solemnly  conse 
crating  ourselves  to  each  other,  and  asking 
the  blessing  and  the  assistance  of  God  in  the 
performance  of  the  new  duties  upon  which 
we  enter,  the  new  happiness  which  we  antici 
pate.  Shall  we  not  be  married  in  church  ?  " 

Amy  said  this  had  always  been  her  favorite 
wish;  and,  although  it  was  not  customary 
in  their  church,  the  clergyman  readily  ac 
quiesced. 

As  soon  as  the  day  was  fixed,  Amy  wrote 
to  invite  her  friend  Fanny  and  her  husband 
to  be  present  at  their  wedding,  and  join  them 
upon  an  excursion  of  a  few  days  in  the  coun 
try,  which  Mr.  Weston  who  w*as  in  an  un 
usually  genial  state  of  mind,  had  himself 
proposed.  Fanny  replied, 

Dear  Amy, 

Nothing  would  give  me  greater  pleasure 
than  to  be  with  you  at  this  time  ;  but  my 
husband  cannot  leave  his  father,  who  is  very 
infirm,  and  I  cannot  well  come  without  him. 
I  console  myself  for  this  privation  by  thinking 
how  many  tears  I  am  saved  from  shedding  by 


166  SKETCHES    OF 

remaining  at  home.  No  one  has  time  to 
shed  tears  in  New  York,  although  I  occasion 
ally  indulge  myself  in  this  luxury  when  no 
one  sees  me.  I  have  always  thought  a  wed 
ding  a  most  melancholy  occasion.  At  births, 
and  at  deaths,  there  is  every  thing  to  hope 
for  the  individual ;  they  are  both  beginnings 
of  new  life  ;  but  at  weddings  it  -is  not  so.  All 
that  is  unlimited,  all  that  is  romantic,  all  that 
is  poetical  and  hopeful  in  the  connexion  be 
tween  lovers,  is  in  the  first  mutual  confession, 
the  first  sweet  promise  of  devoted  love.  That 
is  the  true  bridal  of  hearts,  that  is  their  real 
festal  day ;  but  the  stiff,  formal,  precise,  parad 
ing  wedding  day ;  how  it  comes  with  its  cold 
prosaic  solemnity,  and  dissolves  all  the  deli 
cious  enchantments  in  which  the  heart  has 
revelled  with*  an  overflowing  fulness.  Ah  ! 
if  we  could  but  stop  these  beautiful  hours, 
and  live  them  over  and  over  again  in  one 
eternal  round  !  but,  alas !  how  swiftly  did 
mine  fly  away. 

Like  to  the  summer's  rain, 
Or  as  the  pearls  of  morning  dew 
Ne'er  to  be  found  again. 

Do  n't  blame  me,  Amy  ;  it  is  not  I  that  am 
to  blame  ;  it  is  the  nature  of  things.     Who 


MARRIED    LIFE.  167 

finds  fault  with  the  rose,  or  the  rainbow,  or 
the  butterfly,  or  the  dew-drop,  that  they  are 
as  transient  as  they  are  beautiful !  The 
world  loves  to  appear  happy  ;  but  there  is  a 
great  deal  of  pretence,  and  pride,  and  self- 
glorification  in  all  this.  Every  one  around 
me  supposes  that  I  am  very  happy,  and  that 
is  one  reason  that  my  society  is  so  much 
courted ;  they  hope  to  catch  a  little  of  the 
joy  which  they  think  is  in  my  heart.  Like 
me,  they  have  it  not  within,  and  hope  to  find 
it  somewhere  out  of  themselves.  Each  one 
keeps  his  own  secret.  They  know  not,  these 
craving  souls,  to  what  bankrupt  hearts  they 
go  asking  for  help,  nor  upon  what  fictitious 
foundations  the  drafts  are  made  that  they  re 
ceive  so  eagerly,  and  that  pass  so  readily 
with  a  world  in  which  almost  every  indi 
vidual  has  agreed  to  cheat  and  to  be  cheated. 
It  does  seem  unkind,  I  know,  to  croak  like 
a  bird  of  evil  omen  at  the  idea  of  your  wed 
ding  day,  my  dear  Amy ;  but  you  have  al 
ways  begged  me  to  speak  the  truth,  to  say 
all  that  is  in  my  heart  to  you.  You  have 
always  said  that  you  preferred  to  know  the 
worst ;  and  I  find  when  I  am  speaking  or 
writing  to  you,  that  all  the  reserves,  all  the 
disguises,  which  come  upon  me  at  other 


168  SKETCHES    OF 

times,  and  in  the  presence  of  others,  fall  off, 
and  I  breathe  out  every  feeling,  and  open 
every  thought,  as  if  to  a  disembodied  spirit 
that  I  know  is  all  tenderness  and  forgiveness. 
If  there  lives  a  being  on  this  earth  whose 
happiness  is  founded  upon  realities,  whose 
heart  is  so  fixed  upon  heavenly  things,  that 
nothing  can  shake  it,  it  is  yours  ;  but  the  test, 
the  touch-stone  will  soon  be  applied,  and  it 
will  do  you  no  harm  to  be  warned  before 
hand. 

You  may  suppose  from  this  that  I  have  a 
fit  of  the  blues,  or  that  my  husband  is  not 
kind  to  me,  or  that  I  find  I  was  mistaken  in 
his  character.  No  such  thing.  I  am  often 
very  gay,  I  am  more  in  society  than  ever. 
When  my  husband  and  I  are  together,  we 
are  very  polite  to  each  other ;  he  never  finds 
fault  with  me  now,  and  he  is  just  what  he 
always  was  —  you  know  him,  dear  Amy  ;  but 
there  is  no  reasoning  about  these  things. 
We  cannot  be  reasoned  into  happiness  or  any 
other  feeling.  It  is  one  of  the  falsehoods  of 
the  good,  as  they  are  called,  that  they  pretend 
that  we  are  accountable  for  our  feelings. 
They  say  we  ought  to  be  happy.  What  an 
absurdity !  How  hopeful  a  subject  for  such 
preachers  was  the  man  who  said  he  had  been 
trying  all  his  life  to  be  spontaneous. 


MARRIED    LIFE.  169 

£• 
The   idea  of    trying   to   be   spontaneous, 

brings  to  my  mind  our  friend  Mrs.  Loveall. 
She  and  Mr.  Loveall  have  been  here  with  two 
of  the  Miss  Lovealls.  How  she  did  my-dear- 
me,  when  I  called  upon  her !  and  how  she 
did  show  off  the  young  ladies  to  Mr.  Somers 
who  was  there !  Three  hundred  thousand 
dollars,  writes  poetry,  and  belongs  to  one  of 
our  first  families,  she  told  me  after  he  left  us. 
duery.  What  were  they,  these  first  families 
originally  ?  Cobblers  or  tinkers  ?  She.  how 
ever,  dwelt  only  upon  his  poetical  talents  and 
intellectual  charms.  By  the  bye,  dear,  there  's 
a  pattern  couple  for  you  !  They  are  as  civil 
as  two  pickpockets  to  each  other.  It  is  al 
ways  "  Just  as  you  please  my  dear  ;  ladies 
should  govern  in  all  things,"  and  on  her  part,, 
"  I  am  ready,  Mr.  Lovell,  to  do  as  you  shall 
decide  is  best,"  and  to  the  young  ladies  it  is, 
"  Do  n't  forget  the  injunctions  of  your  Papa ; 
his  will  should  be  consulted  in  every  thing} 
my  dear."  I  heard  her  once  deliver  a  homily 
upon  the  duties  of  wives.  I  had  some  sus 
picion  it  was  meant  for  me  ;  so  I  remarked 
that  I  thought  the  idea  of  a  woman  obeying 
her  husband  was  now  among  the  acknowl 
edged  barbarisms  of  older  times;  it  was 
altogether  obsolete  among  well-bred  folks. 


170  SKETCHES    OF 

"  I,"  she  replied  "  am  old-fashioned  enough 
to  think  that  the  poet  had  the  true  notion  of 
the  dignity  of  woman  when  he  said,  she 

"  Charms  by  accepting,  by  submitting  sways." 

"  Does  not  that  intimate,"  I  replied,  "  that 
to  govern  is  the  great  object  with  women  ? 
only  that  as  the  power  cannot  be  obtained  by 
open  and  fair  means,  it  must  be  gained  by 
contrivance."  I  asked  this  with  a  due  rever 
ence  in  my  manner. 

She  answered  with  a  patronizing  senti 
mental  smile.  "  The  truth  is,  my  dear,  men 
enjoy  the  chains  that  are  hidden  by  the 
flowers  that  love  twines  around  them." 

"  You  think,  then,"  I  said,  "  that  when 
men  call  themselves  the  slaves  of  the  fair  sex, 
it  is  no  figure  of  speech,  but  sober  reality." 

"  Men,"  she  said,  "have  a  right  to  govern 
by  the  law  of  the  land  ;  and  in  all  externals 
are,  and  should  be  masters ;  they  are  the 
visible,  the  acknowledged  head." 

"Woman,  then,"  I  said,  "if  she  is  only 
cunning,  is  the  real,  man  the  apparent,  head 
of  the  family." 

':  Xo,  no,"  said  Mrs.  Lovell.  "  I  am 
afraid,  my  dear,  you  are  a  little  heretical 


MARRIED    LIFE. 


171 


upon  this  subject.  But  Mr.  Lovell  and  I 
early  came  to  an  understanding  with  regard 
to  these  matters ;  and  I  think  that  I  owe  the 
unparalleled  felicity  of  my  married  life  to 
adhering  strictly  to  these  principles." 

I  asked  a  lady  the  other  day,  who  knew 
them  intimately,  whether  they  seemed  happy 
together.  "  O,  yes,"  she  answered  ;  "  you 
never  hear  a  debate,  not  even  a  discussion, 
between  them.  He  is  almost  always  in  his 
study,  and  she  always  in  the  drawing-room. 
They  treat  each  other  with  the  most  pro 
found  respect,  and  each  goes  on  in  his  own 
course,  as  freely  as  if  the  other  was  not  in 
being." 

It  is  a  shame,  at  this  moment,  dear  Amy, 
when  your  mind  is  occupied  so  entirely  with 
other  things,  to  send  you  a  letter  filled  with 
such  nonsense.  I  wish  you  could  see  my 
beautiful  little  Willy.  I  have  no  right  to 
anything  so  angelic.  O,  why  was  I  ever 
obliged  to  leave  you  ?  Bless  you  !  Heaven 
bless  you!  Still  remember  and  love  your 
old  playmate.  Come  what  will,  let  me  still 
be  your  dear  FANNY. 

A  few  weeks  after  her  return,  Amy  wrote 
to  her  cousin : — 


172  SKETCHES    OF 

Dear  Fanny, 

O,  if  I  could  only  talk  with  you,  instead 
of  writing,  I  have  so  much  that  I  want  to 
say  to  you !  and  when  one's  heart  is  so  full, 
words  are  so  inadequate  !  "  Begin,"  you  will 
say,  "  and  tell  on,  just  as  the  children  do ;  " 
and  so  I  will. 

I  told  you,  in  my  last,  that  we  were  to  be 
married  at  church ;  and  so  we  were.  My 
friend,  Miss  Treville,  who  was  present,  says 
there  were  not  many  people  there.  I  thought, 
beforehand,  that  it  would  be  very  disagreea 
ble  to  me,  to  have  any  but  my  most  intimate 
friends  present ;  but  I  had  no  idea  of  the 
absorbing  nature  of  the  emotions  I  should 
experience.  I  was  perfectly  unconscious  of 
the  presence  of  any  human  being  except  my 
husband.  The  church  might  have  been  full, 
and  I  should  not  have  known  it.  A  deep, 
unutterable,  religious  calmness  took  possession 
of  my  soul.  It  was  the  most  holy,  the  most 
perfectly  blissful  moment  of  my  whole  life. 
I  saw  nothing.  I  heard  the  prayer  as  not 
hearing  it.  There  was  a  more  perfect  prayer 
rising  silently  and  unbidden  from  my  own 
heart.  A  strange,  unearthly  influence  seemed 
to  be  upon  me,  when  I  felt  the  pressure  of 
Edward's  hand,  and  realized  that  we  were 


MARRIED    LIFE.  173 

one  for  time  and  for  eternity.  The  first 
thing  that  brought  me  to  this  world  again 
was  the  audible  sobs  of  friend  Ruth,  who 
was  guite  near  me,  and  the  consciousness 
that  Edward  was  leading  me  out  of  the 
church  to  the  carriage.  Before  I  stepped  in, 
I  gave  the  dear  soul  my  hand,  which  she 
squeezed  in  such  a  way  as  to  put  it  beyond 
all  doubt,  that  I  was  yet  in  the  body,  and 
still  subject  to  its  infirmities.  I  could  hardly 
help  wringing  my  hand  with  pain,  as  soon  as 
I  was  in  the  carriage. 

If  you  had  been  with  me,  you  would  have 
highly  enjoyed  a  scene  that  took  place  be 
tween  Ruth  and  Jerry,  the  day  before  we 
were  married.  I  was  in  the  kitchen,  trying 
to  persuade  Ruth  that  a  colored  crape  gown, 
which  Edward  had  brought  for  her  from 
Canton,  would  do  for  her  to  wear  at  my 
wedding. 

"  They  say,  ma'am,  that  it  is  a  bad  sign, 
to  go  to  a  wedding  in  anything  but  white ; 
and  though  this  gown  I  'm  fixing  up  is  rather 
short,  yet  at  meeting  nobody  will  see  my 
feet ;  and  I  shall  feel  better  in  it,  I  know." 

"  But,  Ruth,"  I  said,  "  I  did  not  think  you 
were  so  superstitious." 

"  And  I  am  sure,  Miss  Amy,  I  am  not  su- 


174  SKETCHES    OF 

perstitious ;  but  there  are  some  signs  that 
always  do  come  true.  Now,  when  scissors 
stick  into  the  floor  when  they  fall,  I  always 
expect  a  stranger  ;  and  I  never  saw  any  good 
come  of  singing  before  breakfast,  or  going  to 
a  wedding  in  a  dark  gown ;  and  as  for  a  bride 
to  dress  in  colors,  I  think  it  would  be  nothing 
more  nor  less  than  a  tempting  of  Providence." 

Just  then,  Jerry  entered. 

"  Did  not  I  tell  you  ?  "  said  Ruth.  "  Look 
there  at  my  scissors  sticking  up  in  the  floor, 
and  there  is  Jerry." 

Jerry  came  up  to  me  in  his  peculiar,  fidget- 
ty  way,  expressing  his  great  joy  at  seeing 
me,  and  at  Mr.  Selmar's  return,  and  presently 
said,  "  Well,  I  suppose  your  head  is  in  such 
a  whirl,  Ruth,  that  you  do  n't  want  to  answer 
a  question  I  came  to  ask  you.  Perhaps  I 
had  better  not  stay  now." 

"  He  that  is  dizzy  thinks  the  world  turns 
round,"  replied  Ruth.  "I  don't  care  much, 
Jerry,  for  your  staying  at  any  time ;  but  I  'm 
not  so  busy  but  I  have  time  enough  to  an 
swer  any  of  your  questions.  It  does  not  take 
much  wit  to  answer  them,  you  know." 

"I  wanted  to  know  what  time  I  might 
come  to-morrow,"  said  Jerry. 

"  Better  come  to  breakfast,  Jerry,"  I  an- 


MARRIED    LIFE.  175 

swered.  "  Mr.  Selmar  has  a  present  for  you, 
that  he  brought  from  China,  and  will  be  glad 
to  see  you,  I  know." 

The  poor  fellow  was  so  delighted,  that,  in 
going  out,  he  stumbled  headlong  over  a  chair, 
and  actually  fell  sprawling  on  the  floor.  Ruth 
burst  into  a  hearty  laugh,  and  cried  out  after 
him,  as  he  was  trying  hard  to  escape  her, 
"  Better  slip  with  the  foot  than  the  tongue, 
Jerry." 

Miss  Treville  tells  me  that  Ruth's  appear 
ance  was  very  droll  at  the  wedding.  She 
put  on  the  white  gown  over  a  dark  skirt, 
and,  in  the  strength  of  her  faith  that  her  feet 
would  not  show,  wore  dark  stockings.  I 
did  not  see  her,  or  I  should  have  taken  care 
that  she  was  properly  dressed.  She  stood, 
she  says,  with  her  hands  clasped,  and  her 
head  run  out,  (you  know  how  tall  she  is,) 
looking  intently  in  my  face  during  the  whole 
ceremony,  the  big  tears  running  fast  down 
her  cheeks  all  the  time,  and  she  apparently 
unconscious  of  it,  till  at  last  she  began  to  sob 
aloud,  when,  as  I  mentioned  to  you,  I  heard 
her.  Dear  soul !  If  souls  shaped  bodies, 
with  all  her  oddities,  what  a  beautiful  form 
would  be  hers ! 

I  enjoyed  the  journey,  but  I  was  very  glad 


176  SKETCHES    OF 

to  return  home  to  the  actual  duties  of  life. 
The  true  value  of  the  ideal  is  to  prepare  for 
the  real.  If  we  ascend  the  mount,  in  search 
of  inspiration,  it  must  be  for  the  sake  of 
bringing  it  down  with  us,  to  guide  and  gov 
ern  us  as  we  pass  through  the  wilderness  to 
the  holy  land.  My  father  has  consented  to 
live  with  us.  He  seems  very  happy,  and  I 
hope  we  shall  make  his  old  age  comfortable. 
We  have  been  at  home  about  three  weeks. 
The  mornings  my  husband  gives  to  business, 
the  afternoons  and  evenings  to  reading  and 
social  enjoyment. 

Now,  dear  Fanny,  I  have  a  confession  to 
make.  I  showed  your  last  letter  to  Edward. 
We  have  set  out  upon  the  principle  to  hide 
nothing,  positively  nothing,  from  each  other ; 
to  have  no  separate  interests,  no  separate 
pleasures,  no  separate  duties,  any  farther  than 
is  absolutely  necessary.  I  know  that  I  can 
not  help  him  transact  his  business  at  the 
counting-room,  neither  can  he  assist  me  in 
my  household  affairs ;  but  whenever,  and  in 
whatever  way,  we  can  be  mutually  interested 
and  occupied,  we  shall  act  together.  Now, 
it  is  but  fair  that  you  should  know  this,  dear 
Fanny,  as  it  may  influence  you  in  your  cor 
respondence  with  me  ;  but  I  trust  and  hope 


MARRIED    LIFE.  177 

it  will  not  prevent  your  writing  to  me  with 
the  same  confidence  as  ever.  We  do  not 
agree  with  you,  that  the  first  assurance  of 
mutual  love  is  the  happiest  moment,  or  that 
all  that  is  poetical  and  unlimited  in  love  is 
before  marriage.  We  have,  to  be  sure,  been 
married  only  six  weeks ;  but  we  prefer  the 
constant  intimacy,  the  hourly  devotion,  the 
entire  freedom,  the  perfect  confidence,  the 
serene  assurance  of  reality,  which  belong  to 
married  life,  to  the  feverish  delight,  the  anx 
ious  fears,  the  thrilling  pleasures,  the  fluctu 
ating  hopes,  the  romantic  dreams  of  the  most 
happy  courtship.  If  marriage  is  what  it 
ought  to  be,  it  is  the  exchange  of  ideal  for 
real  bliss ;  of  uncertain  hopes  for  the  most 
joyful  possession ;  of  earthly  tumult  for 
heavenly  peace.  This  is  our  present  belief. 
We  do  not  expect  unmingled  happiness. 
We  know  that  we  are  both  very  imperfect 
beings ;  but  we  are  sure,  that  if  we  are  only 
true  to  each  other  and  to  ourselves,  we  can 
still  love  one  another,  in  spite  of  our  defects. 
This  perfect  oneness  of  mind  does  not  imply 
the  loss  of  individuality.  The  most  perfect 
harmony  is  the  result  not  of  the  repetition  of 
the  same  notes,  but  only  requires  that  the 
different  parts  should  perfectly  accord.  I 
12 


178  SKETCHES    OF    MARRIED    LIFE. 

have,  my  dear  Fanny,  much  more  to  say 
upon  this  subject,  but  I  fear  that  my  letter  is 
already  of  an  unreasonable  length.  If  my 
views  change,  I  promise  to  tell  you  so. 

Ever  yours,  AMY  SELMAR. 


CHAPTER  XIII. 


"  Can  fancy  paint  more  finished  happiness  1 
All  who  knew  envied,  but  in  envy  loved." 

NIGHT  THOUGHTS. 

THE  most  strenuous  advocate  for  the  ex 
clusive  importance  of  a  woman's  being  an 
adept  at  all  those  employments  which  belong 
particularly  to  her  department  in  the  conduct 
of  a  family,  would  have  been  satisfied  with 
Amy's  skill  in  housekeeping.  Every  one, 
who  entered  her  father's  house,  could  not  but 
notice  the  beautiful  order  that  prevailed. 
There  was  nothing  of  what  is  so  emphatical 
ly  and  well  called  fussing,  upon  extraordinary 
occasions.  While  her  father  was  rich,  and 
the  same  when  he  was  comparatively  poor, 
she  adhered  to  a  mode  of  living  which  she 
thought  was  properly  conformed  to  his  means. 
Upon  the  subject  of  entertaining  company,  it 
was  her  principle,  to  provide  more  amply,  not 
differently,  for  guests.  While  they  were 
rich,  this  required  no  sacrifice,  and  was  com- 


180  SKETCHES    OF 

paratively  an  easy  thing,  and  gave  her  the 
full  enjoyment  of  society ;  but  when  their 
means  became  limited,  it  required  some  effort 
of  principle,  to  resist  the  temptation  of  adopt 
ing  a  style,  when  company  came,  which  they 
could  not  usually  afford.  Her  father  was 
always  urging  her  to  this  sort  of  display; 
but  Amy  was  faithful  to  her  principle,  of 
making  no  false  pretences. 

"  I  wish,"  she  would  say  to  her  father, 
"  to  be  truly  hospitable,  and  yet  to  enjoy  our 
visiters.  Now,  if  we  expend  money  in  enter 
taining  them,  which  we  cannot  afford,  I  can 
not  take  pleasure  in  seeing  them  ;  for  I  should 
feel  as  if  we  were  doing  wrong.  Let  us 
appear  to  the  world  as  we  really  are ;  our 
welcome  to  our  friends  will  be  as  sincere  as 
ever." 

"  The  world  will  soon  forget  us,  if  we  do 
not  conform  to  its  customs,"  said  her  father. 

"  But  there  is  a  dignity  and  truth  in  living 
according  to  our  means,  that  even  the  world 
will  acknowledge  and  respect,  father;  and 

our  real  friends  will  surely  not  forsake  us." 

i 

They  thus  had  an  opportunity  of  finding 
out  who  visited  them  for  the  sake  of  the  style 
in  which  they  lived,  and  who  out  of  real 
regard.  Mr.  Weston  was  surprised  to  see 


MARRIED    LIFE.  181 

that  some  of  those,  whom  he  considered  his 
fastest  friends,  fell  away  with  his  fine  houses 
and  elegant  carriage  and  horses  ;  and  he  was 
still  more  astonished  to  see  that  some,  whom 
he  had  looked  down  upon  or  forgotten,  stood 
by  him  and  his  daughter  in  what  he  consid 
ered  their  day  of  adversity. 

In  her  treatment  of  the  domestics,  Amy 
never  forgot  that  we  are  all  equally  the  chil 
dren  of  God.  She  ever  recognized  the  truth, 
that  the  difference  between  the  employer  and 
those  whom  he  employs  is  adventitious  and 
accidental — imposing  mutual  duties,  but  leav 
ing  the  natural  rights  of  each  the  same.  She 
felt  that  the  heaviest  and  most  sacred  obliga 
tion  rested  upon  the  most  favored  party.  She 
thought  that  he,  who  pays  money  for  faithful 
services,  always  gains  what  is,  in  itself,  more 
valuable  than  what  he  gives ;  and  that  if,  in 
addition,  he  receives  confidence  and  affection, 
he  has  given  the  perishable  for  the  imperish 
able  treasure,  and  that  the  bargain  is  unfair, 
unless  he  returns  love  for  love.  Some  will 
say,  "  All  this  is  very  excellent ;  these  are 
grand  principles,  and  show  that  Amy  had  a 
just  notion  of  Christianity ;  but  it  does  not 
prove  her  a  perfect  housekeeper.  Could  she 
make  puddings  and  pies,  and  did  she  under- 


182  SKETCHES    OF 

stand  the  whole  arcana  of  the  pantry  and 
larder  ?  "  Yes ;  she  could  make  puddings, 
and  pies,  and  soups,  and  sauces,  and  jams, 
and  jellies,  and  cakes,  and  custards,  according 
to  the  most  approved  receipts.  "  Was  she 
punctual  at  meals  ? "  asks  some  dyspeptical 
gentleman.  "  Were  you  certain  that  the 
dinner  would  not  grow  cold,  and  her  hus 
band's  temper  grew  hot,  while  she  finished 
dressing  ?  "  Yes ;  she  was  sure  as  the  clock, 
and  ever  at  her  post,  ready  for  its  summons. 
"  And  was  she  patient  with  those  who  were 
not  punctual,  —  that  harder  duty  ?  "  asks  the 
nice  moralist.  In  this,  too,  Amy  did  not  fail. 
Her  cousin  Fanny  said  of  her,  that  "  she  was 
the  only  punctual  and  careful  person  she  had 
ever  known,  that  she  could  tolerate.  Unlike 
these  pattern  folks,"  she  said,  "when  another 
was  too  late,  when  another  was  so  unfortunate 
as  to  lose  anything,  Amy  never  remarked  that 
she  never  lost  anything  —  she  never  kept 
people  waiting."  She  thought  it  was  well 
to  be  faithful  in  her  attention  to  these  mi 
nor  duties,  but  believed  that  any  degree  of 
boasting  would  diminish,  if  not  efface  their 
merit. 

There  is  one  question  that  perhaps  no  one 
will  be  impertinent  enough  to  ask,  which  we 


MARRIED    LIFE.  183 

must  therefore  put  ourselves.  Was  Amy 
careful,  and  neat,  and  attentive,  in  her  per 
sonal  appearance  ?  Self-respect,  regard  for 
others,  even  her  religious  sensibilities,  all 
combined  to  urge  upon  her  mind  the  im 
portance  of  this  duty.  She  wished  that  her 
dress  might  please  others,  for  she  wished  to 
give  pleasure  in  every  thing.  The  human 
body,  this  exquisite  instrument  of  knowl 
edge  and  happiness,  so  cunningly,  so  won 
derfully  made  —  should  it  not  be  the  object 
of  as  much  care  as  we  bestow  upon  some  of 
God's  lesser  gifts?  Does  it  not  contain  a 
celestial  spirit  ?  Some  may  call  it  a  fanciful 
enthusiasm ;  but  Amy  felt  that  since  Jesus 
had  consecrated  the  human  form,  it  should 
be  kept  as  a  holy  temple,  in  which  divine 
excellence  had  once  been  enshrined. 

We  ask  pardon  of  the  reader,  for  giving 
such  a  list  of  Amy's  excellences  as  a  wiie 
and  a  housekeeper ;  but  she  was  too  modest 
to  speak  of  them  herself,  and  they  could  be 
known  fully  only  to  intimate  frielWs  and 
daily  visitors. 

Edward  had  much  improved  during  his 
absence.  His  character  was  more  firm,  more 
decided.  There  was  an  open-hearted  pleas 
antry,  a  Christian  cheerfulness,  in  his  manners, 


184  SKETCHES    OP 

that  gave  them  an  inexpressible  charm.  He 
was  so  trustful,  so  frank,  so  spiritual,  so  purely 
happy,  that  he  seemed  to  animate  every  one, 
even  the  dullest,,  that  he  approached.  All 
seemed  sunshine,  where  he  was.  His  busi 
ness  was  prosperous ;  he  made  some  very 
successful  speculations,  and  again  called  him 
self  a  rich  man.  Amy  was  rejoiced  at  again 
having  money  at  her  command.  She  fully 
appreciated  the  pleasure  which  all  the  refined 
luxuries  of  life  afford ;  more  especially  that 
purest  of  all  luxuries,  of  always  having  her 
purse  well  supplied  for  the  needy.  Mr. 
Weston,  too,  had  never  been  so  truly  happy. 
The  coldest  and  the  most  worldly  heart  can 
not  but  yield,  at  last,  to  the  gentle  but  all- 
subduing  influences  of  a  constant  stream  of 
Christian  love.  His  opinions  were  not 
changed ;  his  views  of  happiness  could  not 
become  elevated  ;  his  intellectual  and  moral 
eye  was  too  dim  to  see  the  true  glory,  the 
true  beauty  of  existence ;  but  his  heart  was 
softened  and  improved  by  the  healthful  moral 
atmosphere  which  pervaded  Amy's  and  Ed 
ward's  household. 

"  I  observe,  my  dear,"  he  said  to  Amy, 
"  that  some  of  our  old  friends,  among  the  first 
class,  who  forgot  us  during  our  fallen  fortunes, 


MARRIED    LIFE.  185 

have  again  found  us  out,  since  Edward  has 
grown  rich.  It  is  well  enough  to  have  a 
visiting  acquaintance  with  people  of  their 
standing  in  society ;  but  I  can  never  take  as 
much  pleasure  in  them  as  I  did  formerly." 

Had  Edward  and  Amy  no  faults  ?  Were 
all  their  days  a  bright  succession  of  halcyon 
hours  —  all  success,  all  goodness,  all  love  ? 
No ;  there  is  no  truth  in  such  pictures.  Of 
fences  must  and  do  come ;  temptations  are 
around  and  within  us.  There  is  no  point  in 
the  scale  of  Christian  perfection,  however 
high,  which  does  not  present  new  and  real, 
though  different  and  more  refined,  trials. 
Married  life,  as  an  offset  to  its  higher  and 
more  exquisite  pleasures,  does  not  lessen,  but 
increase  these  dangers.  The  mistakes  and 
misunderstandings  of  every  day  call  forth  vir 
tues,  and  tempt  to  faults,  the  importance  of 
which  should  not  be  judged  of  in  comparison 
with  grosser  neglects  of  duty,  but  according 
to  the  higher  moral  attainments  of  those  who 
commit  them.  Nothing  has  been  said  of 
Amy's  faults ;  the  following  incident  shows 
of  what  nature  they  were. 

•'Amy,"  said  her  husband,  one  day, 
"  where  did  you  pmt  my  journal  of  my 
voyage  to  Canton  ? " 


186  SKETCHES    OF 

-         -  •. 

"  I  returned  it  to  you." 

"  No ;  I  think  not ;  you  said  you  wished 
to  look  at  it  again." 

"  Oh,  but  I  am  sure  that  I  returned  it  to 
you,  Edward." 

"  I  believe  that  you  kept  it,  Amy." 

"  I  am  so  habitually  careful  about  such 
things  that  I  know  I  should  not  have  kept  it, 
and  then  have  forgotten  it." 

"  I  still  think,  my  dear,  that  it  is  in  your 
possession." 

"I  should  think,  Edward,  that  when  I 
assert  a  thing  so  positively,  you  would  be 
satisfied  that  I  am  right.  You  know  that 
you  often  forget  such  sort  of  things  ;  but  I 
never  do." 

"  Valuable  papers,  Amy,  I  am  never  care 
less  of." 

"  Yes  you  are,  Edward,  for  here  is  an  in 
stance  of  it." 

"I  am  not  convinced,"  said  her  husband. ' 

"  I  should  think  you  would  sooner  trust  me 
than  yourself  in  this  case ;  I  never  make  a 
mistake  of  this  kind." 

"  If  I  did  not  recollect  distinctly  your  keep 
ing  the  journal  I  probably  should." 

"  It  really  is  wrong  in  you  to  doubt  me 
now.  I  am  perfectly  certain  that  I  did  not 


' 

MARRIED    LIFE.  187 

keep  it.  I  am  sure  of  myself  upon  such  sub 
jects." 

Amy's  color  rose  with  her  positiveness. 
Her  husband's  gentleness  did  not  fail,  how 
ever.  He  asked  her  to  go  and  look  in  the 
place  where  she  kept  her  own  papers. 

"  I  will  go,"  she  said,  "  to  satisfy  you,  but 
solely  on  that  account.  I  am  perfectly  cer 
tain  I  am  right." 

She  ran  up  to  her  room  with  a  quick  elated 
step.  She  opened  the  drawer  in  which  her 
own  papers  were,  and  there  the  first  thing 
was  her  husband's  journal.  Sudden  shame 
seemed  to  spread  all  over  her  like  a  hot  gar 
ment.  "  How  absurd  I  must  seem  to  my 
husband !  how  can  I  carry  it  down  to  him 
after  my  foolish  assertions  ?  But  he  will  not 
triumph  over  me,  he  will  only  be  sorry  for 
my  fault,  he  will  even  be  generous  enough  to 
be  sorry  for  my  mortification,  he  is  so  kind  ; 
and  I  do  deserve  a  punishment  for  my  posi 
tiveness." 

Amy  took  the  manuscript  to  her  husband, 
and  with  a  quiet  manner  said,  as  she  gave  it 
to  him,  "  I  have  been  all  wrong,  and  you  have 
been  all  right,  Edward.  If  I  had  not  found 
the  journal  I  should  have  still  been  as  wrong ; 
for  I  was  so  foolishly  positive.  This  is 


188  SKETCHES    OF 

a  great  fault  of  mine,  I  am  truly  ashamed 
of  it." 

Edward  silently  pressed  her  hand  and  the 
incident  was  never  spoken  of  again. 

"  You  must  not,  dear  Amy,"  said  Edward, 
"  rest  your  hopes  of  happiness  with  me,  upon 
the  faith  that  I  have  not  many  faults." 

"  Surely  not,"  said  Amy  ;  "  and  rely  upon 
it  I  shall  be  complaisant  enough  to  keep  you 
fully  in  countenance.  You  have  already 
seen  that  I  am  often  too  positive  ;  and  per 
haps  you  have  to  learn  another  great  fault  of 
mine." 

"  What  is  it,  Amy  ?  " 

"  I  am  very  sensitive  to  blame." 

"  I  should  not  have  thought  so  ;  did  you 
not  voluntarily  incur  the  censure  of  many 
worldly-minded  people  by  coming  to  see  me 
on  Hospital  Island  ?  " 

"  Yes,  and  for  such  censure  I  care  nothing  ; 
but  I  find  it  very  hard  to  keep  my  temper 
when  those  I  love  blame  me." 

"  It  is  right  that  we  should  value  the 
opinion  of  those  we  love,  Amy." 

"  Oh !  but  I  am  too  apt  to  think  that  those 
I  love  ought  not  to  blame  me,  ought  not  to 
doubt  me  in  any  thing.  I  am  silly  enough 
to  suppose  that  they  cannot  think  I  am 
wrong." 


MARRIED    LIFE.  189 

"  I  shall  often  try  you,  then ;  I  am  so 
hasty  and  sensitive  to  any  appearance  of 
wrong  in  any  one  I  love.  I  am  often  unrea 
sonable." 

"  But  our  happiness,"  said  Amy,  "  cannot 
be  in  danger  if  we  are  only  fearless  and  open 
in  confessing  our  own,  and  reproving  each 
other's  faults." 

"  We  not  only,"  said  Edward,  "must  have 
no  disguises  about  things  of  acknowledged 
importance,  but  we  must  consider  nothing  as 
trifling  in  which  the  happiness  of  either  of 
us  is  in  question ;  we  must  be  perfectly 
open." 

All  who  saw  Edward  and  Amy  together 
perceived  that  the  evil  spirit  of  fear  which  so 
often  mars  the  happiness  of  married  life,  had 
no  place  between  them,  but  that  the  "  spirit 
of  love  and  a  sound  mind  "  presided  over  and 
blessed  them. 

"  There  is  one  fault,"  said  Edward,  "  which 
very  intimate  friends  are  apt  to  fall  into, 
which  I  hope  we  shall  avoid." 

"  What  is  that  ?  "  replied  Amy. 

"It  is  bad  manners  towards  each  other.'* 

"  But  how  is  that  possible,  Edward  ?  you 
surely  would  not  like  such  company  polite 
ness  as  Mrs.  Lovell  has  towards  her  hus 
band  ?  " 


190  SKETCHES    OF 

"  No,  it  is  not  the  form,  but  the  spirit  and 
soul  of  good  manners,  that  I  hope  we  shall 
never  neglect." 

"  But,  loving  each  other  as  we  do,  how  is 
it  possible  we  should  be  wanting  in  good 
manners  ?  " 

"  It  would  seem  so,  Amy  ;  and  yet  I  have 
often  seen  people  who  really  loved  each 
other  neglectful  of  the  delicate  attentions  and 
courtesies  of  life,  on  the  plea  that  their  inti 
mate  friends  were  sure  of  their  affection,  and 
it  was  not  necessary  to  be  so  scrupulous  about 
such  little  things  with  friends." 

"I  think  it  very  vulgar,"  replied  Amy. 
"  How  can  they  be  willing  to  check  the  spring 
of  little  affections  which  sweeten  the  cup  of 
life  as  we  drink  it." 

"  It  is  nevertheless  true,  Amy  ;  and  I  have 
seen  your  intimate  friends  commit  this  fault 
towards  you  ;  I  have  seen  them  lavish  their  at 
tentions  and  agreeableness  upon  strangers,  and 
neglect  you,  because  they  thought  that  they 
were  sure  of  your  love." 

"  I  have  never  noticed  it,"  said  Amy. 

"  I  have,"  replied  Edward  ;  "  and  I  have 
seen  the  same  thing  between  married  people, 
and  I  am  certain  it  is  a  deep  injury  to  any 
friendship.  All  our  virtues,  all  our  purest 


MARRIED    LIFE.  191 

affections  require  watchfulness ;   they  must 
be  cultivated,  and  cherished." 

Thus  in  the  simplicity,  and  truth,  and  joy 
of  Christian  love,  did  Edward  and  Amy  walk 
hand  in  hand,  and  heart  in  heart,  along  the 
happy  way  before  them.  Wealth  was  a  real 
blessing  to  them,  for  they  understood  its  true 
uses  :  life  was  a  real  blessing  to  them,  for  they 
kept  in  view  its  infinite  purposes  ;  love  was 
a  real  blessing  to  them,  for  they  were  ac 
quainted  with  its  infinite  joys. 


CHAPTER  XIV. 


His  purpose  is  not  to  appear  just,  but  to  be." 

AESCHYLUS. 


MANY  months  had  passed  away,  each  one 
leaving  Edward  and  Amy  happier  than  it 
found  them.  It  was  a  winter  evening ;  Mr. 
Weston  had  retired  for  the  night,  visiters 
were  gone,  and  Edward  had  been  sitting  for 
some  time,  perfectly  silent,  looking  into  the 
fire. 

"  What  makes  you  so  unusually  silent, 
Edward  ?  "  said  his  wife. 

"  I  can  hardly  tell :  have  I  been  very 
silent  ?  " 

"  Why  you  have  not  spoken  for  an  hour." 

"  It  is  a  very  bad  night  for  the  poor,"  said 
Edward  ;  "  the  cold  is  extreme." 

"  Yes,"  said  Amy,  "  are  you  not  glad  that 
we  sent  poor  Mrs.  Brown  some  wood  this 
morning  ? " 

Edward  made  no  answer.     "  Shall  I  read 


"4 

v*t  f         '    -JM 

-     SKETCHES    OF    MARRIED    LIFE.  193 

you  a  letter  I  received  this  morning  from 
Fanny  Roberts ;  she  and  her  husband  are,  I 
fear,  very  unhappy." 

Edward's  attention  seemed  awakened,  and 
Amy  read  him  Fanny's  letter. 

Dear  Amy, 

This  is  my  little  Willy's  birth-day.     The 
day  of  her  son's  birth  ought  to  be  a  mother's 

•fc 

holiday.  Alas !  there  is  no  holiday  in  our 
house,  none  in  my  heart.  Three  years  ago 
when  the  first  sound  of  my  child's  voi^e  fell 
on  my  ear,  it  seemed  to  me  like  a  voice  from 
Heaven,  pronouncing  a  blessing  upon  me. 
Now  I  look  upon  the  little  fellow  with  pity. 
I  pity  him,  for,  like  his  mother,  he  thirsts  for 
happiness,  and  I  fear  he  will  not  find  it.  I 
pity  him,  for  he  craves  affection  and  he  shall 
never  be  satisfied.  I  pity  him,  for  he  loves 
his  mother,  and  she  does  not  deserve  his  love  ; 
he  leans  upon  her,  and  she  is  a  broken  reed. 
His  father  came  and  took  him  in  his  arms 
this  morning,  and  pressed  him  to  his  heart 
with  such  an  indescribable  tenderness  ;  and  I 
saw  him  look  up,  and  I  saw  tears,  yes,  tears 
in  his  eyes,  but  not  one  word  did  he  speak. 
It  seemed  to  me  as  if  he  purposely  looked 
away  from  me,  as  if  he  wished  to  forget  that 
13 


194  SKETCHES    OF 

there  was  such  a  being  in  the  world.  For 
one  moment  I  was  tempted  to  throw  myself 
on  my  knees  and  implore  him  to  cast  away 
his  chilling,  his  cruel  reserve,  but  the  nurse 
maid  was  in  the  room,  and  I  did  not  wish  to 
proclaim  to  the  world  that  my  husband  did 
not  love  me.  Yes,  this  is  the  hateful  truth, 
Amy ;  my  husband  does  not  love  me,  and 
yet  I  am  his  wife.  Good  God,  I  am  his  law 
ful  wedded  wife,  and  he  does  not  love  me 
better  than  all  the  world  beside ;  and  I  have 
written  it  calmly  as  you  see',  and  I  am  alive, 
and  I  have  not  dashed  my  head  against  the 
wall ;  but  I  am  bearing  this  quietly,  bravely, 
pretending  not  to  see  it,  not  to  know  it,  turn 
ing  myself  into  stone ;  putting  on  the  mask 
of  hypocrisy,  making  believe  happy,  playing 
as  I  did  when  I  was  a  little  girl  that  I  am  a 
rich,  fine,  gay  lady,  —  ha  !  ha !  how  nicely  I 
cheat  them  all.  I  tell  you,  Amy,  because  if 
my  heart  that  sometimes  comes  near  bursting 
should  actually  break,  (such  things  have 
been,)  you  may  bear  witness  that  I  had  one. 
Sweet  Willy !  he  has  just  come  softly  up 
to  me  and  kissed  my  hand,  and  says,  "  Your 
hand  is  cold,  mother,  leave  off  and  dance  and 
sing  with  me."  What  shall  I  sing  ?  "  There 
was  a  maid  in  Bedlam  ? "  That  is  a  sad 


MARRIED    LIFE.  195 

song ;  oh,  no,  it  is  not  so  very  sad,  for  "  she 
knew  that  her  love  loved  her."  Do  n't  think 
I  am  crazy,  Amy,  I  am  as  rational  as  ever  I 
was.  I  try  to  amuse  myself,  and  get  rid  of 
my  uncomfortable  feelings.  For  a  while  I 
enjoyed  dancing,  and  went  to  every  dance  to 
which  I  was  invited  ;  but,  as  my  husband 
gave  up  going,  I  did  not  like  it.  I  shrink 
from  attentions  from  gentlemen  when  he  is 
not  present. 

But  I  have  lately  found  an  amusement  that 
takes  up  my  thoughts  safely.  It  is  the  game 
of  whist.  I  have  become  quite  an  adept  at 
it.  I  belong  to  a  party  which  we  joined 
some  time  ago.  There  is  a  fusty  old  bachelor 
who  is  my  regular  opponent,  and  I  have 
never  played  with  him  without  beating  him. 
I  laugh  at  him  unmercifully  about  it ;  I  tease 
him  in  every  way  I  can  devise,  just  for  the 
sport  of  seeing  the  contest  between  his  polite 
ness  and  his  rage.  I  always  have  the  cards 
against  him  ;  so  sure  as  he  comes  out  with  an 
ace  and  king,  I  trump  him  ;  and  if  he  has  four 
trumps,  I  have  five.  The  other  night,  when 
he  thought  he  was  sure  of  one  trick,  and  I 
trumped  it,  rage  conquered,  and  he  exclaimed, 
"  The  deuse  must  help  Mrs.  Roberts ;  but  I 
ask  pardon  —  it  is  your  play,  ma'am." 


196  SKETCHES    OF 

"  Of  whom  did  you  ask  pardon,  Mr.  Bruin, 
of  me  or  of  that  respectable  person  whose 
name  ought  not  to  he  so  hastily  spoken  ? " 
Upon  this  he  threw  down  his  cards,  and  said 
either  of  us  were  welcome  to  his  cards.  I 
laughed  heartily  at  him,  and  proposed  giving 
him  five  the  next  game,  which  he  took  up 
with  ;  and  it  did  seem  as  if  there  was  some 
witchery  in  the  business,  for  we  beat  him  in 
one  hand.  "  Thanks  to  the  five  we  gave 
you,  Mr.  Bruin,"  I  said,  "  or  you  would  have 
been  beaten  a  love  game."  "  Thank  my 
stars,"  he  said,  "  I  am  free  of  all  love  games  ; 
one  is  sure  to  lose  in  them." 

"  Where  one  is  so  sure  of  being  beaten,  it 
is  most  prudent,  Mr.  Bruin,  not  to  play.  I 
advise  you  to  bring  your  knitting-work  the 
next  time  you  come,  and  perhaps  you  will 
be  kind  enough  to  sit  behind  me,  and  advise 
me  how  to  play  my  cards."  Some  one  told 
me  that  after  I  left  the  room,  he  put  his 
arms  a-kimbo,  and  said,  as  he  looked  after 
me,  "  Well,  I  had  rather  bean  old  bachelor 
to  the  end  of  time,  than  have  to  tame  such  a 
shrew  as  that." 

But,  ah  !  the  loneliness,  the  unspeakable 
loneliness  I  feel,  after  I  return  from  an  evening 
passed  in  this  way,  to  my  own  home.  My 


MARRIED    LIFE.  197 

child  is  asleep,  my  husband  has  retired  for  the 
night ;  no  one  is  up  but  the  housekeeper, 
who  tries  to  tread  softly  for  fear  of  disturbing 
old  Mr.  Roberts,  whose  days  draw  very  fast 
to  a  close.  Parrot-like  in  every  thing,  she  al 
ways  asks  me  exactly  the  same  question  which 
is,  "  Do  you  wish  for  anything  ?  "  and  when  I 
answer,  "No,"  retires.  Once,  however,  she 
proved  her  humanity  by  saying  something  else. 
To  her  question  instead  of  saying,  "No,"  I  an 
swered  "  Yes."  "  What  ma'am  ?  "  she  replied. 
<;  To  die,"  I  answered,  and  with  a  tone  that 
was  frightful  even  to  my  own  ears.  Instead 
of  leaving  me  she  looked  at  me  kindly ;  yes, 
Amy,  kindly,  if  you  will  believe  it,  and  said 
to  me,  "  Life  is  the  gift  of  a  good  God,  and 
not  to  be  despised,  or  wickedly  thrown  away  ; 
but  perhaps,  dear,  you  are  ill ;  let  me  take 
care  of  you."  Had  the  marble  image  of 
Minerva  that  stood  by  her  in  the  entry,  spoken 
words  of  wisdom  to  me,  and  extended  arms 
of  love  and  pity  towards  me,  I  should  not 
have  been  more  surprised,  more  moved.  I 
burst  into  tears.  "  Oh  no  !  no !  "  I  said,  "  I 
am  only  heart  sick ;  "  and  hurried  to  my 
chamber ;  but  I  will  never  laugh  at  her 
again.  There  is  some  terrible  thing  on  my 
husband's  mind ;  and  I,  who  should  be  his 


198  SKETCHES    OF 

bosom  friend,  know  nothing  of  it ;  and  oh !  I 
dare  not  ask  him,  he  is  so  cold,  so  silent,  so 
reserved.  Amy!  dear  Amy!  I  am  so  lost, 
so  bewildered,  so  unhappy  !  Oh,  if  I  could 
but  see  you !  my  head  is  so  confused,  and 
my  heart  is  so  very  heavy.  Write  to  me ! 
Oh,  if  you  could  but  come  to  me  !  You 
know  how  I  love  you. 

FANNY  ROBERTS. 

Edward  and  Amy  were  both  deeply  moved 
at  reading  Fanny's  letter.  "  We  are  their 
nearest  and  dearest  friends,"  said  Amy  ;  "  I 
wish  we  could  go  to  them;  we  might  do 
them  good.  Poor  Fanny !  how  my  heart 
aches  for  her." 

"  So  does  mine,  Amy  ;  but  you  know  that 
it  is  out  of  the  question  for  you  to  go  at 
present.  You  must  write  to  Fanny,  and  tell 
her  that  the  self-sacrificing  life  of  a  mother 
has  already  commenced  with  you,  and  that  if 
all  is  well,  we  will  certainly  come  to  New 
York  in  the  spring."  Edward  again  relapsed 
into  an  unusual  silence. 

"  Dear  Edward  !  "  said  his  wife,  "  you  have 
something  on  your  mind  ;  your  brow  looks 
troubled  ;  what  is  it. 

"  Only  anxiety  about  business,  Amy.     How 


MARRIED    LIFE.  199 

often  I  have  wished  that  I  had  not  "been  bred 
a  merchant !  But  my  mother  said  that  it 
was  a  favorite  wish  of  my  father,  that  I 
should  be  an  accomplished  merchant." 

"  I  have  sometimes  wished  so  too,"  an 
swered  his  wife  ;  "  and  then,  again,  I  remem 
ber,  that  the  very  evils  that  belong  to  your 
profession  may  be  turned  into  good.  He 
that  has  it  in  his  power  to  do  wrong  with 
impunity  though  he  gains  by  it,  yet  chooses 
the  right  by  which  he  loses,  is  the  most 
eloquent  preacher  of  righteousness." 

"  Very  true,  Amy ;  but  sometimes  this  is 
indeed  cutting  off  the  right  hand,  and  pluck 
ing  out  the  right  eye  ;  and  then  thinking 
always  about  money  arid  bargains  has  such  a 
contracting  influence  upon  one's  mind!  " 

"  But,  how  often,  Edward,  have  I  heard 
you  say  that  no  man  has  such  wide  and  vari 
ous  connexions  with  the  human  race,  as  a 
well-educated,  upright,  and  active  merchant ! 
Every  part  of  the  world  sends  him  its  tribute 
of  knowledge,  as  well  as  of  riches.  He  sees 
men  under  all  aspects ;  and  while  he  may, 
with  a  certain  degree  of  security,  indulge  in 
dishonesty,  and  be  the  enemy  of  his  fellow- 
men,  perhaps  no  man  can  be  so  true,  and 
self-sacrificing,  and  efficient  a  philanthropist, 
as  a  Christian  merchant." 


200  SKETCHES    OF 

» 

"  It  is  not  always  so  easy  as  you  may 
imagine,  for  a  merchant  to  act  as  remember 
ing  that  he  is  under  his  great  Task-master's 
eye." 

"  Not  for  all,  or  some  men ;  but  for  you, 
Edward,  the  difficulty  would  be  to  act  other 
wise.  When  I  think  of  your  profession, 
Edward,  it  gives  me  pleasure  to  notice  that 
merchants  in  general,  as  they  acquire  property 
more  easily,  are  more  disposed  to  spend  it 
liberally." 

"  Yes,"  said  Edward,  as  his  eye  kindled  at 
the  thought ;  "  the  greater  proportion  of  our 
public  benefactors  have  been  merchants. 
Their  money  has  given  eyes  to  the  blind, 
and  ears  to  the  deaf,  health  to  the  sick,  and 
peace  and  comfort  to  the  forsaken ;  it  feeds 
and  instructs  the  ignorant  poor ;  it  sends  the 
glad  tidings  of  salvation  to  the  unbeliever 
and  the  penitent ;  it  takes  little  children  in 
its  arms,  and  blesses  them.  But  all  this  glo 
rious  power  supposes  wealth,  Amy." 

"  And  you,  dear  Edward,  are  rich  enough 
to  enjoy  this  highest  of  all  privileges  —  to  be 
the  dispenser  of  good  to  others.  You  have 
cause  only  for  thankfulness.  But  the  poor, 
the  unsuccessful  merchant,  who  has  not 
the  means  of  educating  his  children,  whose 


MARRIED    LIFE.  201 

spirits  are  broken  down  by  failures,  and 
whose  temper  is  soured  by  what  he  con 
siders  the  injustice  or  dishonesty  of  others, 
perhaps  even  of  his  own  friends  —  he  is  the 
man  who,  perhaps,  may  be  excused  for  find 
ing  fault  with  his  profession.  My  heart 
aches  for  him." 

Edward  started  up,  and  walked  hastily 
backward  and  forwards  through  the  room,  as 
if  he  had  been  seized  with  some  sudden  and 
intolerable  pain. 

"  What  is  the  matter,  Edward  ? "  said  his 
wife.  "  Are  you  ill  ?  " 

"  O,  nothing ;  nothing  of  consequence," 
said  Edward.  "I  happened  to  think  of 
something  rather  unpleasant  then.  It  is  late 
now,  I  believe,  and  my  head  aches." 

They  retired  for  the  night.  The  next 
day,  Edward  looked  depressed  and  thought 
ful,  and  as  if  he  had  passed  a  sleepless  night. 
Amy  was  troubled  by  his  silence.  This  was 
the  first  cloud  that  had  rested  on  her  hus 
band's  brow  since  they  were  married. 

"He  has,"  she  said  to  herself,  "he  has 
always  confided  every  thing  to  me.  He  will 
tell  me  what  it  is  that  hangs  so  heavily  upon 
his  spirits.  He  will  never  shut  me  out  from 
his  sorrows,  any  more  than  his  joys." 


202  SKETCHES    OF 

She  thought,  when  he  returned  from  the 
counting-house  for  the  day,  that  he  looked 
more  free  and  happy,  though  he  was  still 
silent  and  thoughtful. 

"  Come  and  sit  by  me,  Amy,"  said  Edward 
to  her,  when  they  were  alone  in  the  evening. 

Amy  sat  down  by  her  husband. 

"  Do  you  not,  Amy,  enjoy  our  handsome 
house,  and  pictures,  and  carriage,  &c.  ?  " 

"  Surely,  Edward ;  I  take  great  pleasure 
in  these  things.  Why  do  you  ask  ?  " 

"  And  you  love  to  have  money  enough  to 
give  to  those  who  want  it  ?  " 

"  Why,  what  a  question,  Edward  !  You 
know  I  value  this  power  more  than  I  can 
tell." 

"  And  can  you  voluntarily  resign  all  these 
luxuries,  Amy  ? " 

"  Why  should  I  voluntarily  resign  them, 
Edward  ?  What  makes  you  so  enigmatical  ? 
Tell  me  what  you  mean." 

"  Suppose  that  all  the  money,  which  ena 
bles  us  to  indulge  ourselves  in  these  luxuries, 
is  not  truly  our  own  ;  what  would  you  have 
me  do,  Amy  ?  " 

"  Is  it  you,  Edward,  that  asks  me  whether 
I  would  keep  that  which  belongs  to  another  ? 
Is  it  you  that  asks  me  whether  I  would  be 
dishonest  ? " 


MARRIED    LIFE.  203 

"  But  suppose,  according  to  the  law  of  the 
land,  and  the  customs  of  society,  and  the 
tacit  consent  of  those  most  interested,  this 
property  was  secured  to  you  ?  " 

"  When  I  am  satisfied,"  said  Amy,  "  that  I 
can  plead  the  law  of  the  land,  the  customs  of 
society,  and  the  opinions  of  the  world,  before 
the  judgment-seat  of  God,  as  an  excuse  for 
violating  that  higher  law,  which  he  has  writ 
ten  on  my  heart  —  when  I  have  placed  the 
opinion  of  the  world  in  the  scales  against  my 
own  self-respect,  and  found  it  the  weightiest, 
then,  Edward,  I  might  hesitate.  But  why 
ask  me  such  questions?  Why  do  you  not 
speak  plainly  ? " 

"  I  will,  Amy,"  answered  her  husband. 
"  When  I  failed  in  business,  before  our  mar 
riage,  I  made  a  settlement  with  my  creditors, 
by  which  I  paid  them  seventy-five  cents  on 
a  dollar.  They  knew  that  I  paid  them  all  I 
had,  and  signed  a  full  release  from  all  further 
claims.  Of  late,  my  mind  has  been  troubled 
about  those  debts ;  for  such  I  consider  them. 
A  few  days  since,  one  of  my  creditors  brought 
his  son  to  me,  (a  fine  fellow,)  and  asked  me 
to  take  him  into  my  store.  He  mentioned, 
in  the  course  of  conversation,  that  he  had 
intended  to  send  his  son  to  college,  for  the 


204  SKETCHES    OF 

boy  had  a  thirst  for  learning  ;  that  he  was,  in 
fact,  fitted  to  enter ;  but  that  he  found  he 
was  too  poor.  '  If,'  said  the  father,  '  by  deny 
ing  myself  every  thing  but  the  necessaries 
of  life,  I  could  feed  my  boy's  mind,  I  would 
thankfully  do  it ;  but  I  cannot  honestly  in 
dulge  myself  even  in  this  luxury.'  I  felt 
smitten  to  the  heart.  When  I  failed,  I  owed 
that  man  twelve  thousand  dollars.  I  paid 
him  but  nine.  I  now,  of  course,  owe  him 
three,  and  the  interest  upon  it.  That  sum 
would  enable  him  to  give  his  son  the  advan 
tage  which  he  so  much  desires.  I  have  been 
thinking  over  the  whole  subject,  and  studying 
it  fairly.  Dymond's  Essay  would  satisfy 
me,  if  I  were  not  convinced  before,  of  what 
is  right." 

"  And  you  will  of  course  do  it,  Edward ; 
there  can  be  no  doubt." 

"  I  knew  that  you  would  say  so,  Amy  ; 
but  you  must  think  it  over  calmly.  You 
know,  upon  the  subject  of  property,  as  well 
as  other  things,  we  have  no  mine  and  thine  ; 
as  we  have  one  interest  and  duty,  so  we  have 
equal  rights.  I  cannot  take  this  step  without 
your  full  approbation  and  consent." 

"  Is  that  all  that  has  troubled  you  for  these 
few  days  past  ? "  said  Amy,  as  she  looked 


MARRIED    LIFE.  205 

into  her  husband's  face,  with  an  expression 
of  joyful  relief. 

"All,"  said  Edward. 

"  And  why  not  speak  to  me  at  first  about 
it  ?  Why  not  let  me  share  every  trouble  as 
it  rises  ? " 

"  O,  Amy,  I  felt  it  only  on  your  account. 
I  hated  to  deprive  you  of  all  these  luxuries. 
You  know  with  what  delight  I  see  you  doing 
good,  real  good,  with  money." 

"  Never  again,  Edward,  do  me  the  injustice 
to  suppose  that  I  prefer  the  lower  virtue  of 
charity  to  the  higher  one  of  justice.  Let  me 
not  be  acknowledged  as  your  equal  only  in 
the  cheap  and  easy  duties  and  pleasures  of 
life,  but  trust  in  me,  as  your  worthy  helpmate, 
in  the  higher  and  more  arduous  exercises  of 
virtue.  I  love  all  the  refined  pleasures  which 
wealth  can  give ;  I  enjoy,  highly  enjoy,  all 
these  luxuries,  with  which  we  are  surround 
ed  ;  but,  Edward,  what  are  they,  compared 
with  the  unspeakable  thrill  of  joy,  with 
which  the  noble  soul  can  cast  them  all  aside, 
as  the  slight,  the  paltry  purchase  money  of 
an  infinite  satisfaction  of  this  never-silent 
monitor  within  ?  You  did  not  doubt  me, 
surely,  Edward?" 

"No,  dear  Amy,"  said  Edward,  " I  did  not ; 


206  SKETCHES    OF 

I  never  could  doubt  you.  I  ought  to  have 
spoken  to  you  every  thought  as  it  arose  in 
my  mind.  As  soon  as  my  moral  sense  was 
awakened  to  my  duty,  I  ought  to  have 
opened  my  heart  to  you.  But  it  is  so  pain 
ful  to  me,  not  to  be  able  to  give  you  every 
thing  that  you  can  desire,  and  you  seemed  so 
perfectly  happy ! " 

"  It  is  simply  a  choice  between  pleasures, 
Edward ;  and,  as  we  cannot  have  all,  we  will 
choose  the  highest  and  most  enduring.  Think 
of  the  happiness  that  you  can  give  to  others, 
by  this  simple  act  of  justice !  " 

"There  is  your  father,  too,  Amy.  The 
thought  of  him  has  been,  perhaps,  the  great 
est  pain  to  me  ;  for  I  knew  you  would  feel 
justly ;  but  his  free  consent  to  our  marriage 
was  founded  upon  the  belief  that  I  was  rich  ; 
and  when  he  hears  of  our  determination,  it 
will  seem  to  him  like  mere  folly  and  child 
ishness.  It  will  give  him  unmingled  pain. 
I  am  grieved  for  him." 

"  So  am  I,"  said  Amy.  "  He  can  enjoy 
none  of  the  pleasure  of  this  sacrifice.  He 
will  even  think  we  do  wrong.  It  is  the  only 
real  evil  belonging  to  the  case.  I  am  sorry, 
very  sorry,  for  him.  But  we  must  bear  that 
too ;  and  we  will  bear  it  all  bravely,  Edward. 


MARRIED    LIFE.  207 


What  is  it,  after  all,  but  relinquishing  what 
we  have  no  right  to  —  what,  in  fact,  we 
have  enjoyed  at  the  expense  of  the  rights 
and  happiness  of  others?  And  the  sooner 
we  make  restitution,  the  happier  we  shall  be 
ourselves." 


CHAPTER  XV. 


"  The  noble  heart  that  harbors  virtuous  thoughts 
And  labors  with  a  glorious,  great  intent 
Can  never  rest  until  it  forth  have  brought 
The  eternal  brood  of  glory  excellent." 

FAIRY  QUEEN. 


THE  next  day  Edward  devoted  himself  to 
the  examination  of  the  papers  relative  to  his 
failure  ;  to  ascertaining  the  number  of  his 
creditors,  and  the  amount  which,  according  to 
his  views  of  duty,  he  justly  owed  them.  Prin 
cipal  and  interest  to  the  last  farthing  he  de 
termined  to  pay,  he  said  to  Amy  as  he  left 
her  in  the  morning  for  his  counting-room. 
"  As  I  cannot  help  you  there,"  said  his  wife, 
"  I  will  do  my  part  at  home,  which  is  to  tell 
my  father  of  your  resolution." 

"  Poor  Amy,  you  have  far  the  worst  task  of 
the  two ;  my  heart  is  lighter  and  happier 
than  it  has  been  since  I  first  viewed  this  sub 
ject  rightly  ;  but  yours  aches,  I  know,  at 
giving  pain  to  your  father." 


SKETCHES    OF    MARRIED    LIFE.  209 

"  It  is  but  right,"  said  Amy,  "  that  I  should 
have  my  share  of  the  suffering  that  belongs 
to' this  duty." 

She  immediately  went  to  her  father's 
apartment.  It  had  been  a  great  pleasure  to 
her  and  her  husband  to  devote  their  most 
beautiful  room  to  her  father's  particular  use, 
and  it  gave  her  a  pang  as  she  entered  it,  to 
think  that  they  probably  would  have  to 
change  their  place  of  abode,  and  that  he 
would  then  be  deprived  of  this,  one  of  his 
very  few  sources  of  gratification. 

Amy  sat  awhile  in  her  father's  room  talking 
with  him  upon  indifferent  subjects,  before 
she  could  gather  sufficient  courage  to  speak 
of  the  one  on  her  mind,  when  Mr.  Weston 
introduced  a  subject  which  naturally  led  to 
it.  "I  have  done  with  this  book,  Amy  ;  I 
took  it  up  from  the  breakfast  table  a  day  or 
two  since,  but  I  see  from  what  little  I  have 
read  of  it  that  I  should  not  relish  it." 

"  What  do  you  object  to  in  it,  father  ?  " 

"  What  he  says  upon  the  subject  of  a  bank 
rupt's  paying  his  debts  after  he  has  settled 
with  his  creditors,  is  in  some  respects  arrant 
nonsense," 

"  That   happens    to  be  the   very  subject, 
father,  I  came  to  talk  about  with  you." 
14 


210  SKETCHES    OF 

"  My  mind  has  been  always  made  up  upon 
this  subject.  A  man  ought  to  pay  all  he  has, 
and  then  if  his  creditors  consent,  he  is  free 
entirely  afterwards." 

"  If,  father,  he  grows  rich  again,  and  is 
able  to  pay,  it  seems  to  me  he  ought  to  pay 
them." 

"  Many  men  of  the  first  standing  in  society 
think  very  differently,  and  act  otherwise,  not 
only  in  their  own  case,  but  in  relation  to 
others." 

"  Edward  and  I  cannot  agree  with  them  ; 
and  he  thinks  now  that  he  is  able  to  pay  his 
creditors  all  that  he  owes  them,  that  he  ought 
to  do  it." 

"  I  trust  that  he  will  not  be  so  absurd,  so 
unjust  to  his  own  family  ;  he  has  no  right  to 
treat  you  so." 

I  have  urged  him  to  this  step,  father ;  and 
he  really  means  to  take  it." 

"  What !  "  said  her  father,  stamping  on  the 
floor,  "  he  will  not  dare  to  reduce  himself  and 
his  wife,  and  all  of  us,  to  comparative  poverty, 
for  the  sake  of  gratifying  a  romantic  whim  of 
his  and  yours." 

"  The  truth  is,  father,  he  does  not  dare  to 
do  otherwise ;  the  property  is  not  ours,  it 
belongs  to  others." 

"  I  did  hope,"  said  Mr.  Weston,  "  now  that 


MARRIED    LIFE.  211 

I  am  an  old  man,  I  might  be  allowed  to  pass 
the  remainder  of  my  days  in  peace.  I  sup 
pose  you  call  this  goodness,  this  sickly  sensi 
bility,  this  childish  romance ;  you  have  no 
regard  for  me  or  my  opinions ;  I  am  weary  of 
life.  I  wish,  that  respect  for  your  old  father 
was  among  your  virtues,  but  that  is  an  old- 
fashioned  duty." 

"  We  are  very  sorry,  father,  if  you  disap 
prove  of  our  conduct ;  but  we  cannot  keep 
this  money  and  be  contented.  We  shall  have 
enough  left  to  make  us  very  comfortable,  and 
it  will  be  our  first  object  to  make  you  happy 
in  every  way  we  can.  You  need  make  no 
change  in  your  mode  of  life,  except  perhaps 
going  with  us  to  a  smaller  house." 

"  I  had  better  go  to  a  boarding-house,  or  a 
mad-house,  or  the  grave-yard.  I  did  hope 
now  that  Edward  was  prosperous,  and  the 
world  smiled  upon  us,  I  had  done  with 
changes." 

"  I  am  very  sorry,  father,  that  you  should 
suffer." 

"  Have  not,"  continued  Mr.  Weston,  "  have 
not  the  wisest  and  best  in  the  land  been 
placed  exactly  in  Edward's  situation ;  and 
have  not  they  considered  it  perfectly  right, 
to  abide  by  the  decision  of  their  creditors 


212  SKETCHES    OF 

releasing  them  from  all  further  obligation  to 
pay? " 

"  There  is  no  decision,  father,  that  can 
supersede  that  of  one's  own  conscience  ;  the 
consciences  of  the  wisest  and  best  men  in  the 
world  cannot  protect  ours  from  pain.  We 
must  do  what  we  think  right  ourselves." 

"  The  opinion  which  I  hold  has  been  an 
acknowledged  principle  from  time  immemo 
rial.  There  can  be  no  such  thing  as  trade 
without  it ;  these  new-fangled  notions  are 
spoiling  everything.  Does  Edward  suppose 
that  he  is  so  much  wiser,  or  that  he  need  be 
so  much  better  than  all  the  rest  of  the 
world  ?  " 

"  He  does  not  wish  to  judge  others ;  but 
when  he  saw  a  poor  man  the  other  day  suf 
fering  for  the  want  of  money  which  he  re 
membered  he  owed  him,  his  conscience  told 
him  he  ought  to  pay  it ;  and  if  he  ought  to 
pay  one  creditor,  he  ought  to  pay  all." 

Amy  then  told  her  father  of  the  boy  who 
was  obliged  to  give  up  going  to  college. 

"  One  of  the  good  effects  of  the  system," 
said  Mr.  Weston,  "it  would  prevent  many 
boobies  going  to  college  if  there  were  fewer 
men  able  to  send  their  sons.  When  property 
is  accumulated  in  the  hands  of  a  few  well- 


MARRIED    LIFE.  213 

* 

educated  upright  men,  it  is  far  better  for  the 
country.  It  increases  their  influence  and 
enables  them  to  do  good.  They  can  always 
assist  and  patronize  real  merit ;  these  things 
settle  themselves." 

"  But  is  it  not  better  for  a  man,  as  well  as 
more  agreeable,  to  receive  justice  than  charity, 
father  ?  We  consider  this  simple  justice." 

"  All  of  these  notions,"  said  Mr.  Weston, 
"  come  of  the  romantic  ideas  of  perfectibil 
ity,  which  you  so  early  acquired,  Amy,  and 
which  have  at  last  been  our  ruin ;  for  among 
other  innovations  of  modern  times,  women 
govern  their  husbands  instead  of  submitting 
to  them  according  to  the  directions  of  St. 
Paul ;  and  I  believe  that  this  is  your  notion, 
and  your  doings.  A  man  would  have  had 
more  common  sense." 

Amy  denied  this  charge,  and  told  her  father 
the  truth,  that  it  was  Edward's  own  proposal. 

"  Then,  Amy,  it  was  your  duty  as  a  wife  to 
have  urged  your  husband  to  abide  by  the 
opinion  of  the  world." 

Amy  forbore  to  remind  her  father  of  the 
objections  he  had  just  made  to  women  influ 
encing  their  husbands  ;  but  simply  remarked 
that  she  had  always  thought  that  no  law  and 
no  opinion  could  absolve  a  man  to  his  own 


JL! 
SKETCHES    OF 


conscience  from  paying  a  just  debt,  if  he  had 
the  means;  and  that,  though  this  was  her 
husband's  own  proposition  altogether,  yet 
she  had  said  every  thing  to  encourage  him 
in  it :  he  had  actually  commenced  making  a 
restitution  to  his  creditors ;  and  that  she 
agreed  with  him,  that  this  was  a  sacred  obli 
gation  of  duty. 

"And  I  consider  it,"  said  Mr.  Weston, 
"  romantic  nonsense  —  absurd  sentimentality. 
But  my  opinion,  my  wishes,  my  rights,  my 
feelings,  are  set  aside,  as  well  as  those  of  all 
the  rest  of  the  world.  Mr.  Selmar  had  no 
right  to  sacrifice  my  comfort,  and  that  of  his 
wife  and  child,  perhaps  even  to  starve  them, 
to  gratify  his  quixotic  notions  of  duty.  It  is 
a  pity  he  ever  undertook  to  be  a  merchant. 
He  is  only  fit  to  sit  by  some  muddy  stream 
in  the  country,  and  make  verses  to  the  moon. 
Such  men  should  never  marry.  I  am  sick 
at  my  soul  of  such  childish  stuff!  " 

Amy  had  never  seen  her  father  more  vexed 
— more  inaccessible  to  reason.  She  said  all 
she  could  to  comfort  him ;  but  her  words 
were  like  water  spilled  on  the  ground.  He 
concluded  the  conversation  by  saying,  "  I 
do  n't  wish  to  hear  another  word  upon  the 
subject.  I  consider  this  act  as  silly  as  it  is 


IP  Y 

MARRIED    LIFE.  215 

atrocious.  But  my  opinion,  and  the  opinion 
of  every  body  of  common  sense,  is  of  no 
avail.  I  suppose  we  are  behind  the  age. 
That 's  the  cant  expression,  I  believe.  The 
wise  and  the  experienced  people  of  the  world 
must  sit  still  and  listen,  while  boys  teach 
them  morals,  and  women  instruct  them  in 
political  economy.  Children,  now-a-days, 
teach  their  parents,  and  turn  their  grandfa 
thers  out  of  doors.  Every  man  over  sixty 
must  wish  himself  in  his  quiet  grave,  unless 
he  turns  fool  with  the  rest  of  the  world." 
«.  Mr.  Weston  drew  his  chair  towards  the 
fire,  put  up  his  feet  on  the  fender,  adjusted 
his  spectacles,  and  took  up  his  book  ;  and 
Amy  was  obliged,  with  a  heavy  heart,  to 
leave  him  with  the  flush  of  anger  still  glow 
ing  on  his  hollow  cheek. 

Edward  and  Amy  bent  their  whole  atten 
tion  to  the  performance  of  the  duties  which 
their  determination  imposed  upon  them. 
Cheerfully  and  promptly  they  made  arrange 
ments  for  the  change  in  their  style  of  living, 
which  their  lessened  income  would  render 
necessary. 

"  I  have  paid  the  last  farthing,  principal 
and  interest ! "  exclaimed  Edward,  as  he  re 
turned  from  his  counting-room,  his  face 


216  SKETCHES    OF 

glowing  with  delight.  "  I  stand  now  free 
of  all  bonds,  like  a  man  escaped  from  slavery 
—  disenthralled  —  truly  free,  with  a  joyful 
sense  of  power,  such  as  I  never  before  expe 
rienced.  O,  I  did  not  think  that  money, 
simply,  too,  the  restitution  of  money  that 
was  not  my  own,  could  have  given  me  such 
pleasure.  One  pleasure  I  enjoyed  quite  acci 
dentally.  The  father  of  the  boy  that  wished 
so  much  to  go  to  college,  asked  me  to  call  in 
some  evening,  and  see  his  wife,  with  whom 
I  was  formerly  acquainted.  I  called  in  as  I 
came  home  this  evening.  I  had  been  there 
only  a  minute,  when  a  beautiful,  noble-look 
ing  boy  burst  into  the  room,  and  ran  up  to 
his  mother,  and,  putting  his  arms  around  her 
neck,  whispered,  loud  enough  for  all  in  the 
room  to  hear,  '  Mother,  father  has  just  told 
me  that  I  can  go  to  college,  and  I  shall  not 
have  to  part  with  my  books,  and  I  shall  not 
have  to  make  bargains,  and  be  a  merchant. 
Good  Mr.  Selmar  has  paid  father  some  mon 
ey.'  As  soon  as  his  mother  could  make  him 
listen,  she  mentioned  my  name  to  him.  His 
face  was  all  radiant  with  bashful  surprise  and 
pleasure.  He  came  up  to  me,  and  gave  me 
both  his  hands,  and  looked  up  at  me  as  if  I 
had  bestowed  a  great  gift  upon  him,  instead 
of  merely  paying  a  just  debt." 


MAKRIED    LIFE.  217 

"  I  have  heard  of  another  case,  dear  Ed 
ward.  You  know  Sophia  Reed  ;  her  parents 
had  just  consented  to  her  going  to  Ohio  as  a 
governess,  because  they  could  not  afford  to 
support  all  their  children  at  home.  Ruth 
(whose  sister  lives  there)  has  been  giving  me 
an  account  of  the  joy  of  the  family,  since 
you  paid  them  what  you  owed  them.  She 
says  it  was  as  if  she  had  been  dead,  and  had 
been  brought  to  life  again." 

The  charms  of  generosity,  the  attractive 
loveliness  of  compassion,  the  healing  and 
quickening  influences  of  charity,  have  often 
and  justly  been  set  forth.  They  have  been 
recommended  by  all  the  graces  and  winning 
arts  of  human  eloquence.  But,  should  simple 
and  even-handed  justice  but  govern  our  land 
for  one  day,  not  bestowing  aught  as  a  favor, 
but  restoring  to  each  human  being  that  which 
is  rightfully  and  truly  his  own,  what  pen 
could  record  all  the  touching  tales  of  relief 
from  misery  —  what  ear,  but  that  of  the  all- 
merciful  God,  could  bear  the  full  swell  of 
blissful  gratitude,  which  would  rise  from  the 
millions  of  human  hearts,  suffering  and  dying 
from  defrauded  rights,  and  reckless,  ruthless 
injustice  ?  So  thought  Edward  and  Amy ; 
and  never  had  they  enjoyed  so  pure  a  pleas- 


218  SKETCHES    OF 

lire  from  the  possession  of  money,  as  the  per 
formance  of  this  simple,  equitable  act  had 
given  them.  There  were  many  who  laughed 
at  them ;  others  who  blamed  them  ;  others 
who  pitied  them ;  and  others,  again,  who 
highly  praised  them.  Mrs.  Lovell,  who  never 
failed  to  visit  her  acquaintances  upon  great 
occasions,  called,  soon  after,  to  condole  or 
congratulate  them,  as  she  found  most  appro 
priate. 

"  I  cannot  but  lament,  my  dear,"  said  she 
to  Amy,  "  the  necessity  of  your  leaving  this 
elegant  house,  and  giving  up  your  carriage." 

"  But  for  my  father,  I  should  not  regret 
it,"  said  Amy.  "  As  soon  as  we  were  con 
vinced  that  we  had  no  right  to  the  house  and 
carriage,  we  could  not  enjoy  them.  Honest 
poverty  is,  in  our  opinion,  a  happier  as  well 
as  more  dignified  state  than  even  questionable 
riches.  So  do  n't  lament  on  our  account." 

"  But  it  is  so  noble  in  you  both !  The 
opinion  of  the  world  would  entirely  bear  you 
out,  in  keeping  this  property  that  Mr.  Selmar 
and  you  have  relinquished." 

"  The  opinion  of  the  world,"  replied  Amy, 
"  could  not  also  make  us  happy  in  doing  it. 
Mr.  Selmar  and  I  both  regret  that  we  did  not 
sooner  see  our  duty.  It  is  now  nearly  a  year 


MAKRIED    LIFE.  219 

since  he  has  had  it  in  his  power  to  pay  these 
just  debts ;  and  we  feel  rather  humble,  on 
that  account." 

"  But  Mr.  Selmar  must  suffer  much  from 
depriving  you  of  all  these  luxuries." 

"  He  will  never,  I  trust,  be  so  unkind  as 
to  separate  me,  in  his  thoughts,  from  himself, 
or  to  doubt  whether  I  can  bear  as  cheerfully 
as  he  whatever  sacrifice  duty  requires." 

Just  then,  a  domestic  entered,  and  gave 
Amy  a  note. 

"  Excuse  me,  if  you  please,"  she  said  to 
Mrs.  L.,  "  while  I  open  this  letter  to  my  hus 
band,  and  see  if  it  should  be  sent  to  him." 

When  Amy  had  enclosed  the  letter  to  her 
husband,  and  sent  it  to  him,  Mrs.  Lovell  said, 
with  great  surprise  in  her  looks,  "  What !  do 
you  venture  to  open  your  husband's  letters  ? " 

"  Surely,"  said  Amy.     "  Why  not  ?  " 

"  But,  suppose  that  the  letter  should  con 
tain  something  that  Mr.  Selmar  would  not 
wish  you  to  know  ?  " 

"  That  could  not  be,"  replied  Amy.  "  We 
have  one  heart,  one  interest,  and,  as  far  as 
possible,  one  mind,  in  every  thing.  There 
is  no  mine  and  thine  between  us.  Then 
why  not  open  each  other's  letters  ?  We  al 
ways  do  so,  when  there  is  any  reason  for  it." 


220  SKETCHES  or 


"  I  have,  my  dear,  always  been  scrupu 
lously  careful  upon  this  point.  I  rarely  open 
even  a  note  of  invitation  ;  and  to  this  delicate 
and  watchful  respect  I  owe,  I  think,  much  of 
the  unparalleled  happiness  of  my  wedded 
life.  Let  me  warn  you,  my  dear,  of  the 
danger  of  this  habit.  Few  characters  can 
venture  to  be  so  transparent.  1  am  better 
acquainted  with  men  than  you  are." 

Amy  made  no  answer,  but  simply  changed 
the  conversation. 

"  Shall  you  part,  my  dear,  with  any  of 
your  domestics  ?  "  asked  Mrs.  Lovell. 

"  Yes  ;  two  —  a  man  and  a  woman." 

"  Are  they  trustworthy,  and  can  you  rec 
ommend  them  ? " 

"  Yes,  I  can,"  replied  Amy. 

"  But,  do  they  know  their  places,  and  will 
they  be  willing  to  conform  to  my  rules  ?  " 

" I  cannot  tell  that,"  said  Amy,  "as  I  do 
not  know  what  your  rules  are  ;  but  they  can 
best  decide  for  themselves.  Would  you  like 
to  speak  to  them  ?  " 

"  Not  to-day ;  I  must  think  of  it  first. 
What  wages  have  you  paid  them,  my  dear  ? 
I  always  give  low  wages  from  principle. 
High  wages  spoil  servants.  If  they  deserve 
it,  I  make  it  up  to  them  in  presents ;  and  it 


MARRIED    LIFE.  221 

» 

keeps  them  more  under,  and  has  a  good  effect 
upon  them,  to  know  that  they  must  win  your 
favor  by  good  conduct,  or  they  will  lose  by 
it.  I  think  it  is  setting  a  bad  example,  to 
give  women,  especially,  high  wages." 

"  My  views  are  different,"  replied  Amy. 
"  I  think  the  wages  of  women  too  low ;  and 
I  always  pay  them  the  highest,  as  a  matter 
of  right,  if  they  understand  their  work,  and 
do  it  well.  I  had  rather  economize  some 
other  way." 

The  other  part  of  Mrs.  Lovell's  remarks 
she  was  too  much  displeased  with  to  reply 
to  ;  but  she  added,  "  You  know,  my  husband 
and  I  are  true  republicans,  even  radicals,  as  I 
suppose  you  would  call  us,  and  desire  the 
abolition  of  all  disgraceful  servitude,  and 
therefore  encourage  the  spirit  of  independence 
in  our  domestics." 

"  O,  my  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Lovell,  "  this  lib 
erty  and  independence  are  excellent  in  the 
abstract,  and  highly  desirable  for  those  who 
are  sufficiently  enlightened  to  make  a  right 
use  of  them ;  but  they  will  never  do  in  prac 
tice,  particularly  with  the  mass.  It  is  liberty 
that  spoils  our  servants.  It  will  ruin  the 
country,  Mr.  L.  says." 

"  We  hope  better  things,"  said  Amy.    "  We 


. 


222  SKETCHES    OF 

think  that  we  have  not  liberty  enough  yet, 
and  that,  when  we  are  consistent  republicans, 
and  truly  faithful  to  our  institutions,  we  shall 
be  a  truly  happy  people." 

"  Mr.  Lovell  thinks  otherwise.  He  says 
that  the  prospects  of  the  country  are  very 
gloomy,"  said  Mrs.  Lovell,  as  she  took  her 
leave. 

When  Ruth  heard  from  Amy  that  Mr. 
Selmar  was  going  to  pay  his  creditors  the 
remainder  of  what  he  owed  them,  and  that, 
in  order  to  do  this,  they  must  move  into  a 
smaller  house,  and  reduce  their  expenses  very 
considerably,  her  first  expression  was,  "  Well, 
now,  if  that  is  n't  ridiculous !  Just  as  we 
have  got  fixed,  to  have  to  move  again !  Well, 
they  say  a  rolling  stone  gathers  no  moss." 

"  We  shall  give  up  our  carriage,  and  part 
with  Nancy  and  John,  Ruth ;  but  we  think 
we  ought  to  pay  this  money,  though  the  law 
does  not  bind  us  to  it." 

"  And  I  'in  sure,  ma'am,  I  respect  you  for 
it ;  and  you  know  that  no  one  goes  in  his 
own  carriage  to  the  grave.  It  will  be  all  the 
same  thing  a  hundred  years  hence,  whether 
one  has  been  rich  or  poor ;  but  not,  I  reckon, 
whether  we  have  done  justice  to  all  men,  or 
not;  and  nobody  knows  how  you  and  Mr. 


MARRIED    LIFE.  223 

Selmar  would  have  borne  your  prosperity. 
It 's  hard  to  carry  a  full  cup  even  ;  and  they 
say  that  vinegar  is  the  son  of  wine.  Not 
that  there  is  much  wine-drinking  in  this 
house  either ;  but  then  you  might  drink  it,  if 
you  pleased ;  and  I  dare  say  it  will  all  be  for 
the  best,  in  the  end,  that  you  can't  burn  the 
candle  at  both  ends,  even  if  you  had  money 
enough  to  afford  to  be  so  wasteful,  which,  I 
am  sure,  would  be  ridiculous." 


CHAPTER  XVI. 


"  If  you  regard  me  with  this  look  of  ice 
My  heart  shuts  up  with  inward  shuddering ; 
The  stream  of  tears  i:>  checked,  cold  horror  fetters 
The  words  of  fond  entreaty  in  my  bosom ; 
Unchain  my  heart,  that  I  may  move  your  own." 

MARY  STCART. 


AMY  devoted  her  first  leisure  moments,  after 
the  performance  of  the  duties  which  their 
altered  mode  of  life  made  necessary,  to  an 
swering  Fanny's  letter.  She  conjured  her  to 
open  her  heart  to  her  husband  ;  she  entreated 
her  to  tell  him  of  all  she  suffered  from  his 
reserve.  She  used  every  argument  she  could 
think  of,  to  prove  to  her  that  the  happiness  of 
her  whole  life  depended  upon  her  conduct 
now,  and  that  she  must,  at  any  cost,  insist 
upon  her  husband's  confidence.  She  refer 
red  Fanny  to  her  former  letters,  in  which 
she  warned  her  against  the  danger  that 
was  sure  to  arise  from  any  want  of  truth  and 
trustful  open-hearted  dealings  between  her 
and  her  husband,  and  entreated  her  now 


y 

SKETCHES    OF    MARRIED    LIFE.  225 

while  it  was  yet  possible  to  recover  her  hus 
band's  confidence,  to  be  simple,  and  upright 
with  him.  She  warned  her  against  the 
hardening  influence  of  the  endeavor  to  make 
what  is  called  pleasure,  take  the  place  of  a 
true  and  virtuous  happiness.  She  expressed 
her  firm  conviction  that  her  husband  still 
loved  her,  but  probably  doubted  whether  she 
loved  him. 

She  promised  Fanny  to  visit  her  in  the 
spring,  if  she  should  be  carried  safely  through 
her  approaching  confinement.  She  expressed 
to  her  the  deep  unutterable  joy  which  she 
felt  at  the  hope  of  being  a  mother.  "  Surely," 
she  said,  li  God  himself  strengthens  and 
cheers  the  heart  of  the  hopeful  mother,  who 
peacefully  and  courageously  waits  her  ap 
pointed  time." 

She  mentioned  the  fact  that  Edward  had 
paid  what  remained  due  of  his  debts,  and  that 
they  in  consequence  were  obliged  to  move 
to  another  house  and  lessen  their  expenditure. 
She  simply  expressed  her  regret  that  they 
had  not  before  remembered  that  this  was  a 
duty  ;  and  her  great  pleasure  that  they  had 
it  in  their  power  to  make  just  restitution 
of  what  did  not  in  fact  belong  to  them,  and 
15 


226  SKETCHES    OF 

from  the  loss  of  which  the  rightful  owners 
had  so  long  unjustly  suffered. 

Fanny's  letters  to  Arny  had  given  a  faith 
ful  picture  of  her  own  state  of  mind,  and  as 
far  as  could  be  judged  of  by  appearances,  that 
of  her  husband's  ;  but  in  order  that  the  reader 
may   be  able    to   understand   this  perfectly, 
some  circumstances  and  facts  must  be  related. 
Mr.  Roberts'   father  had   become    more   and 
more  infirm  and  childish ;  he  was  unwilling 
to  have  his  son  out  of  his  sight,  his  life  seem 
ed  to  depend  upon  his  presence  ;  no  one,  not 
even  his  favorite  housekeeper  could  take  his 
place,  he  thought,  for  a  moment.  The  silence 
which  Fanny  complained  of,  increased  upon 
him  ;  he  was  gentle  and  kind  in  his  manner 
towards  his  wife,  but  it  seemed  to  be  the  kind 
ness  of  pity,  not  of  love.  In  this  state  of  feeling, 
an  occurrence  apparently  trifling  took  place, 
the  effects  of  which  on  his  mind  threatened 
to  fix  his  and  Fanny's  destiny  for   misery  in 
their  present  connexion.    In  Fanny's  letter  to 
Amy  it  may  be  remembered   she  had  men 
tioned  the  whist  party  she  had  joined,  which 
she  preferred    to  all  other  amusements,  be 
cause  she  was  unwilling  to  go  among  stran 
gers   unattended  by  her  husband.     The  es 
tablished  rule   in  this  little  circle  was,  that 


MARRIED    LIFE.  227 

they  should  meet  alternately  at  each  other's 
houses  ;  but  hitherto  when  it  came  to  Fanny's 
turn,  the  next  person  on  the  list  had  proposed 
that  she  should  be  excused  on  account  of  the 
illness  of  old  Mr.  Roberts.  As,  however, 
there  was  no  important  change  in  his  state  of 
health,  and  no  immediate  cause  of  alarm,  it 
seemed  to  be  now  expected  that  Fanny  and 
her  husband  should  have  the  party  at  their 
house.  Fanny  looked  embarrassed  when  the 
question  arose  where  they  should  next  meet. 
One  of  the  company  remarked  that  it  was 
Mrs.  Roberts'  turn  ;  "  and  then,"  said  another 
"  we  shall  perhaps  have  the  pleasure  of  seeing 
Mr.  Roberts."  "Perhaps,"  said  a  third 
"  Mr.  Roberts  is  too  wise  and  good  to  spend 
his  time  in  such  a  useless  manner."  The 
lady  who  had  kindly  taken  the  party  before, 
when  it  was  Fanny's  turn,  added,  "  Mrs. 
Roberts  shall  not  be  forced  to  give  her  rea 
sons  for  not  having  us  at  her  house  ;  my 
doors  shall  gladly  be  opened."  Fanny  was 
vexed,  and  hardly  knowing  what  she  said, 
invited  the  party  to  meet  at  her  house  the 
next  week ;  and  then  turning  to  Mr.  Bruin, 
who  was  not  a  regular  member  of  the  club, 
but  who  had  been  usually  invited  from  par 
ticular  courtesy,  she  said,  "  I  hope  we  shall 


228  SKETCHES    OF 

have  the  pleasure  of  seeing  you,  Mr.  Bruin, 
unless  you  are  afraid  of  being  beaten  unmerci 
fully."  The  good  man  considered  this  a 
proposal  of  peace,  and  offered  to  wait  upon 
Fanny  home,  which  she  refused.  When 
seated  alone  in  her  carriage,  Fanny's  feelings 
were  not  to  be  envied.  "  What  have  I  done  ? " 
said  she  to  herself ;  "  invited  the  whist  party 
to  our  house  when  my  husband's  father  is  so 
ill  that  he  will  not  leave  his  bed-side  even 
to  spend  an  evening  with  his  wife  !  Can  it  be 
right,  then,  that  I  should  leave  home  to  join 
the  party  elsewhere  ?  Was  it  right  in  him 
to  urge  me  to  go,  and  almost  insist  upon 
it  ?  I  will  tell  him  that  if  it  be  only  for  the 
sake  of  appearances,  and  to  silence  the  evil 
sayings  of  the  world,  I  will  go  out  no  longer 
without  him." 

Mr.  Roberts  watched  with  his  father  that 
night.  When  Fanny  met  him  in  the  morn 
ing  her  first  impulse  after  inquiring  about  his 
father's  state,  was  to  tell  him  how  painful  it 
was  to  her  to  go  to  these  whist  parties  with 
out  him,  and  to  explain  the  feelings  which 
had  induced  her  to  invite  the  whole  com 
pany  to  their  house,  and  then  to  propose  an 
entire  withdrawal  from  the  circle,  on  the 
ground  of  his  father's  illness,  and  the  impos- 


MARRIED    LIFE.  229 

sibility  of  his  going  with  her.  But  there 
was  something  in  the  solemn  rigid  coldness 
of  his  manner,  that  seemed  to  freeze  up  all 
Fanny's  good  purposes,  and  awake  the  slum 
bering  evil  spirit  in  her  heart. 

"  It  seems  to  me,  Mr.  Roberts,"  she  said  in 
an  affected  tone  of  pleasantry,  "  that,  as  Mr. 
Weston  says,  the  opinion  of  the  world  will 
hardly  bear  us  out  in  these  fashionable 
manners." 

"  What  do  you  mean,  Fanny  ?  "  he  replied, 
in  a  solemn  tone. 

"  Why,"  said  she,  "  the  wisest  and  best,  I 
think,  would  not  approve  of  my  going  to  card 
parties  and  leaving  you  at  home  to  nurse  your 
father,  and  take  care  of  the  house  and  the 
baby.  It  looks  a  little  as  if  my  home  was  not 
happy  ;  it  looks  as  if  I  was  not  a  good  wife,  it 
looks  as  if  you  did  not  hold  your  proper  place 
in  the  house.  It  seems,  you  know,  as  if  the 
order  of  things  was  inverted,  for  a  woman  to 
go  out  after  pleasure,  because  home  has  no 
attractions  :  if  a  man  does  such  a  thing,  it  is 
all  natural  enough  ;  but  for  a  woman,  forsooth, 
to  commit  such  an  enormity,  it  will  never  do, 
the  world  will  shake  their  wise  heads,  and 
conclude  we  are  not  happy." 

"  Very  possible,"  replied  Mr.  Roberts,  whose 
gloom  was  increased  by  her  levity. 


• 

230  SKETCHES    OF 

"  Is  it  right,"  said  Fanny  who  could  no 
longer  maintain  her  jesting  tone,  "  for  you  to 
insist  upon  my  going  to  these  whist  parties 
without  you  ?  " 

"  I  thought  it  would  give  you  pleasure." 

"  We  have  never  had  the  party  here,"  said 
Fanny,  "  and  it  must  appear  while  I  go  to 
them,  as  if  you  did  not  approve  of  it,  for  you 
have  never  gone  since  the  first  two  or  three 
meetings,  and  I  am  exposed  to  very  unpleasant 
remarks.  It  is  our  turn  to  receive  the  party 
next  week,  and — "  Fanny  hesitated ;  her  heart 
told  her  all  was  wrong  within  :  while  she  was 
thinking  how  to  proceed,  her  husband  said, 
"  Invite  them  here  next  Monday,  Fanny  ;  I 
see  that  your  not  meeting  here  does  expose 
you  to  unpleasant  remarks.  Have  them  here, 
I  beg  of  you  ;  indeed  I  insist  upon  it ;  my 
father  may  be  better,  and  I  will  try  to  be 
with  you ;  I  am  sorry  I  have  not  thought  of 
this  myself." 

There  was  a  momentary  strife  between 
right  and  wrong  in  Fanny's  heart :  she  felt 
she  ought  to  tell  her  husband  that  she  had 
already  asked  them,  and  explain  why  ;  but 
how  could  she  disturb  that  moment  of  some 
thing  like  confidence  and  kindness  between 
them  ?  She  had  only  to  be  silent  and  all  seem- 


MARRIED    LIFE.  231 

ed  nicely  arranged,  and  her  difficulties  all 
done  away.  The  temptation  was  too  great 
for  her,  she  had  not  the  courage  to  tell  him 
that  she  had  invited  the  party  without  con 
sulting  him.  She  continued  silent. 

"  I  am  glad,"  said  Mr.  Roberts,  "  that  you 
spoke  to  me  freely  of  this  affair,  Fanny,  and 
told  me  all  your  wishes.  Heaven  knows  I 
would  make  you  happy,  if  I  could.  I  am 
going  now  to  get  a  breath  of  fresh  air,  and 
then  to  my  father's  room  again  ;  in  the  mean 
while  you  had  better  send  your  invitations  to 
our  friends."  There  was  an  unusual  tender 
ness  in  his  manner,  and  Fanny  tried  to  feel 
happy. 

In  the  course  of  his  walk  he  met  Mr. 
Bruin  ;  he  stopped  to  shake  hands  with  him. 
Just  as  they  were  parting,  Mr.  Bruin  said  to 
him,  "  Mrs.  Roberts  was  kind  enough  to  in 
vite  me  to  join  the  whist  party  next  Monday 
evening  at  your  house,  and  I  intend  to  do 
myself  the  honor  to  come." 

Poor  Roberts  could  make  no  reply  ;  he  was 
stupified  with  misery;  all  that  Fanny  had 
said  to  him  seemed  like  a  premeditated  con 
trivance  and  falsehood.  "  She  has,"  he  said 
to  himself,  "no  confidence  in  me,  no  love  for 
me  ;  she  was  unfeeling  enough  to  invite  com- 


232 

pany  to  the  house  when  my  father  is  on  his 
death-bed  ;  and  she  was  then  mean  enough 
to  hide  it  from  me  in  this  manner,  and  to 
contrive  that  it  should  seem  my  wish  that 
they  should  come.  She  coquetted  with  me 
before  marriage ;  how  can  I  expect  love  and 
truth  from  her  now  she  is  my  wife.  She 
married  me,  perhaps,  for  an  establishment ;  I 
am  only  a  necessary  appendage.  She  was 
alone  in  the  world ;  she  had  no  natural 
protector ;  it  was  important  to  her  to  fasten 
herself  to  some  one,  and  I  was  the  most  con 
venient  tool  she  met  with ;  and  now  her 
strongest  bond  to  me  is  that  she  has  no  home 
to  go  to."  This  sorrowful  thought,  "  no 
home  to  go  to,"  softened  his  rising  indig 
nation.  "  Poor  young  thing  !  "  he  continu 
ed,  as  he  moved  along  mechanically  through 
an  obscure  street  that  he  had  entered  to 
avoid  observation,  "  Unhappy  Fanny  !  She 
was  lonely  and  dependent,  and  I  was  rich 
and  devoted  to  her  ;  I  was  too  importunate  in 
the  expression  of  my  love  for  her ;  she,  per 
haps,  thought  she  loved  me  ;  she  meant  to 
love  me,  but  love  cannot  be  forced,  even  our 
own  will  cannot  bid  us  love  another.  I  have 
made  her  more  lonely  than  she  was  before,  by 
making  her  my  wife  ;  I  am  to  her  only  a 


.- 

MARRIED    LIFE. 


233 


gaoler,  for  her  heart  does  not  welcome  the 
bonds  that  hold  us  together.  She  is  not 
happy ;  and  yet  she  was  once  so  gay  and 
happy,  and  she  is  so  young,  so  beautiful. 
Oh  that  I  could  make  her  free  even  at  the 
sacrifice  of  my  life,  if  by  so  doing  I  might 
restore  her  to  a  life  of  truth  and  peace.  I 
will  not  reproach  her  with  her  falsehood ;  I 
will  add  nothing  to  her  misery  ;  let  her  have 
what  pleasure  she  can  from  a  successful 
contrivance.  Why  should  she  also  be  un 
happy  ?  not  for  worlds  would  I  have  her 
heart  ache  with  the  agony  that  mine  endures." 
Mr.  Roberts  returned  to  his  house  with  the 
determination  to  say  nothing  to  his  wife  of 
his  discovery  of  her  want  of  truth  and  confi 
dence  in  him.  Fanny  was  so  accustomed  to 
her  husband's  cold  and  reserved  manners,  that 
she  did  not  notice  the  deeper  gloom  that  had 
settled  on  his  brow  from  this  time.  The 
Monday  came,  and  Fanny's  friends  assembled 
in  her  drawing-room,  according  to  her  invita 
tion.  Mr.  Roberts,  faithful  to  his  promise,  was 
present  to  welcome  them.  As  soon  as  they 
were  seated  at  the  card  tables,  he  went  up  to 
his  father's  room.  The  evening  was  nearly 
past,  when,  as  he  was  gazing  into  the  fire,  lost 
in  a  melancholy  reverie,  he  was  startled  by 


234  SKETCHES    OF 

Mrs.  Hawkins  suddenly  addressing  him  with 
these  words, — "  Mr.  Roberts,  do  n't  you  think 
Mrs.  Roberts  expects  you  down  stairs  ?  "  He 
made  no  answer :  she  continued,  "  I  thought 
she  looked  rather  down-hearted  about  their 
coming  ;  had  n't  you  better  go  down  ?  she  '11 
feel  better  if  you  do." 

"  Perhaps  I  had,"  he  said,  and  he  went 
down  to  the  drawing-room.  The  room  was 
brilliantly  lighted;  every  countenance,  to  the 
melancholy  man  seemed  to  beam  with  a  joy 
in  which  he  had  no  share,  and  which  he  feared 
his  entrance  would  disturb :  more  than  all, 
Fanny,  his  young  and  lovely  wife,  who 
usually  when  he  saw  her  looked  sad  and  dull, 
now  appeared  to  him  radiant  with  enjoyment, 
as  well  as  beauty.  As  he  was  gazing  at  her, 
she  raised  her  eyes,  which  before  had  been 
fixed  on  her  cards,  and  as  they  met  his  sorrow 
ful  look,  her  face  grew  crimson  red,  and  in  her 
embarrassment  she  trumped  her  partner's  trick. 

"  Is  this  the  way,"  said  her  partner  laugh 
ing,  "  you  treat  your  best  friends  ?  Mr. 
Roberts  you  have  a  strange  wife  ;  I  hope  she 
does  not  treat  you  as  she  does  me.  I  advise 
you  to  look  after  her  ;  she  is  not  to  be  trusted." 

Mr.  Roberts  sighed  unconsciously  :  Fanny 
heard  it ;  that  low  sigh  was  louder  to  her 


MARRIED    LIFE.  235 

conscience-stricken  ear  than  all  the  confused 
din  of  gay  sounds  with  which,  to  another,  the 
room  would  have  seemed  full.  Fanny  tried 
to  rally  her  spirits,  but  in  vain ;  she  played 
worse  and  worse,  and  lost  the  game.  It 
seemed  as  if  the  whole  company  experienced 
a  sudden  and  unaccountable  fall  of  spirits 
after  Mr.  Roberts'  entrance  :  they  separated 
sooner  than  usual,  on  the  plea  that  they  must 
keep  good  hours,  as  Mr.  Roberts'  father  retired 
early  to  rest. 


CHAPTER  XVII. 


"Poor  Ophelia! 
Divided  against  herself  and  her  fair  judgment." 

HAMLET. 


POOR  Fanny,  who  seemed  born  for  gaiety 
and  joy,  as  truly  as  the  rose  is  created  for 
beauty  and  fragrance,  was  fast  withering  in 
the  chilling  and  ungenial  atmosphere  in 
which  she  was  placed.  As  her  misery  in 
creased,  she  grew  more  and  more  pettish  and 
unreasonable,  and,  when  it  was  too  late, 
repented  of  some  unjust  or  passionate  expres 
sion,  which  she  was  guilty  of  towards  her 
husband,  and  which  he  passed  over  unno 
ticed,  or  with  a  sorrowful  rather  than  up 
braiding  look.  He  appeared  like  a  person 
whose  bosom  labored  with  some  painful  se 
cret,  which  he  could  not  communicate,  and 
the  evil  effects  of  which  he  would  fain  suffer 
alone. 

In  answer  to  Amy's  letter,  Fanny  repeated 
her  conviction  that  her  husband  did  not  love 
her,  and  her  unutterable  misery  at  this  belief. 


SKETCHES    OF   MARRIED    LIFE.  237 

She  declared  that  it  was  impossible  for  her 
to  speak  freely  to  him.  She  related  to  Amy 
the  whole  story  of  the  whist  party,  in  noth 
ing  extenuating  herself,  but,  on  the  contrary, 
calling  herself  a  monster,  and,  by  that  means, 
trying  to  relieve  her  conscience,  which  blamed 
her  for  not  acknowledging  her  small  but  real 
fault  at  first,  and  her  subsequent  untruth  to 
her  husband. 

Upon  the  subject  of  the  reduced  circum 
stances  of  her  friends,  Fanny  said,  "  O  that 
we,  too,  were  poor !  —  that  I  had  to  work  for 
my  daily  bread,  to  labor  for  my  sweet  Willy ! 
That  might  please  his  father,  perhaps.  If  I 
were  to  minister  to  my  husband  with  my 
own  hands,  perhaps  he  would  notice  me  as 
much  as  he  does  his  shoe-black.  At  any 
rate,  bodily  labor  might  divert  this  terrible 
pain  in  my  heart.  I  want  to  be  in  motion 
all  the  time.  I  try  to  run  away  from  myself. 
I  tell  the  coachman,  when  I  take  a  drive, 
to  go  as  fast  as  he  will.  c  Where,  ma'am  ? ' 
he  asks.  '  I  do  n't  care,'  I  answer.  He  re 
turns  in  season  for  dinner,  for  his  own  sake. 
I  meet  my  husband  at  table.  He  asks  me 
where  I  have  been.  I  answer,  I  do  not 
know ;  that  the  coachman  can  tell  him,  but 
that  I  don't  know  the  names  of  roads  and 


238  SKETCHES    OF 

places  where  I  go.  Perhaps  he  does  not 
speak  again  during  dinner,  unless  Mrs. 
Hawkins  makes  an  effort  at  conversation ; 
and  then  I  say  something  either  to  make 
my  husband  angry,  or  to  make  him  laugh  ; 
but  all  in  vain.  He  does  not  love  me 
enough  to  be  angry  with  me,  and  is  too  un 
happy  to  laugh.  I  laugh,  and  make  strangers 
laugh.  My  head  is  full  of  all  sorts  of  vaga 
ries.  Every  thing  takes  the  horrid  form  of  a 
savage  jest  in  my  mind.  Most  of  all,  peace 
of  mind,  love,  and  joy,  are  jests  to  me.  Peo 
ple  call  me  witty ;  but  it  is  all  reckless  mis 
ery.  The  one  thought,  that  my  husband 
does  not  love  me,  presses  so  on  my  poor 
heart !  and  O,  dear  Amy,  my  head  is  so  dizzy ! 
Do  n't  you  be  angry  too,  Amy ;  if  you  are, 
tell  me  so  ;  anything  I  can  bear  but  this  ter 
rible  silence.  If  my  husband  were  to  speak 
in  a  voice  of  thunder,  I  should  prefer  it  to 
this  awful  silence.  Pity  me,  I  am  so  un 
happy.  Yours,  FANNY." 

Soon  after  Fanny  had  despatched  her  letter 
to  Amy,  her  husband  entered  the  room.  She 
felt  strangely  shocked  at  the  solemn  sadness 
of  his  manner,  far  greater,  even,  than  was 
usual  to  him.  He  sat  down  on  the  sofa, 


MARRIED  LIFE.  239 

by  her  side,  and,  after  a  momentary  silence, 
in  which  he  seemed  to  be  making  an  effort 
at  self-command,  he  said,  "  Fanny,  my  father 
is  dead.  He  died  about  an  hour  since,  very 
suddenly,  without  any  pain,  just  after  Mrs. 
Hawkins  and  I  had  arranged  his  pillow  for 
him,  and  thought  he  was  only  falling  asleep." 

"  Dear,  happy  old  man !  He  is  free  from 
all  pain,"  replied  Fanny. 

"The  funeral,"  continued  Mr.  Roberts, 
"  will  be  the  day  after  to-morrow  ;  and  then, 
Fanny,  as  soon  as  I  have  settled  the  estate,  I 
am  going  to  Europe." 

"  Going  to  Europe  !  "  exclaimed  his  wife, 
with  affected  calmness  ;  "  and  alone  ?  " 

"  Yes,  alone,"  he  replied,  with  a  sad  em 
phasis  on  the  word. 

"  And  what  are  you  going  to  do  with  me 
and  Willy  ?  "  asked  Fanny. 

"  I  wish  you  to  say,  Fanny,  where  you 
would  prefer  to  be." 

"  And  why  is  it  that  you  forsake  your  wife 
and  child  ? " 

"  I  leave  you,  Fanny,  because  I  have  long 
been  satisfied  that  we  should  be  happier 
separated." 

"  Happy !  did  you  speak  of  being  happy  ? " 
screamed  Fanny,  looking  wildly  in  his  face. 


240  SKETCHES    OF 

"  I  am  sure  we  are  very  happy,  remarkably 
happy,  especially  when  we  are  alone  together  ; 
you  are  so  sociable,  so  talkative,  so  gay,  and 
you  love  me  so  dearly ;  and  then  I  am  so 
gentle  and  good  ;  why  we  are  like  two  lovers, 
dear  William,  are  we  not  ?  Why  should  we 
separate  ?  let  us  be  married  again,  dear  !  The 
day  of  the  funeral  will  do,  the  clergyman  you 
know  will  be  here,  and  your  father  will  be 
present,  and  we  will  invite  the  sexton  and 
the  grave-diggers,  and  the  pall-bearers,  and 
the  mourners,  and  the  bell  shall  toll ;  ah  that 
is  just  the  thing !  " 

Fanny  burst  into  a  hysterical  laugh,  and 
then  fell  into  a  long  fainting  fit.  Mr.  Roberts 
rang  the  bell  for  assistance,  and  after  he  had 
carried  her  to  her  bed-room,  left  her  with  Mrs. 
Hawkins.  Some  hours  afterwards,  when  she 
had  revived,  she  sent  for  her  husband :  there 
was  a  rigid  statue-like  quietness  about  her, 
very  unlike  her  usual  appearance. 

"  I  am  perfectly  composed,"  said  Fanny, 
in  answer  to  his  entreaty  that  she  would  be 
calm.  "  Do  not  fear  that  I  shall  so  lose  posses 
sion  of  myself  again,  I  promise  to  be  calm.  I 
have  some  questions  to  ask  of  you,  and  some 
affairs  of  importance  to  settle.  Are  you  re 
solved  to  go  to  Europe  ?  " 


MARRIED    LIFE.  241 

"  Yes.  Fanny,  I  think  it  would  be  better 
for  us  both ;  but  let  us  avoid  all  excitement ; 
it  is  enough  that  we  cannot  be  happy  to 
gether,  and  therefore  part." 

"  What  do  you  mean  to  do  with  our  boy  ?  " 
Fanny  nearly  lost  her  self-command  as  she 
spoke  the  word. 

"  I  mean  to  leave  him  with  you,  Fanny  ?  " 

"  But  would  you  not  like  to  have  him 
yourself?  Surely  you  love  that  baby  ;  he  has 
never  done  wrong  ;  do  you  not  love  him  ?  " 
There  was  a  frightful  stiffness  in  her  muscles 
as  she  asked  this  question. 

"  God  knows  I  love  him  better  than  life  !  " 
answered  her  husband. 

"  Then  why  do  you  leave  him  ?  " 

"  Because,"  said  Roberts,  "  I  think  you 
have  the  best  right  to  him.  You  have  en 
dured  much  for  him  ;  a  mother's  sufferings 
give  her  an  inalienable  right  to  her  child  ;  no 
law  of  man,  no  opinion  of  the  world  can 
abrogate  that  higher  claim.  I  have  as  yet 
done  nothing  to  deserve  the  name  of  father  ; 
you  have  endured  pain  and  privation  for  his 
sake,  and  have  the  highest  claim  to  him." 

"  That  is  very  generous  in  you,  William." 
After  a  short  silence,  during  which  she  seem 
ed  lost  in  thought,  she  said,  "  I  know  I  am 
16 


242  SKETCHES    OF 

not  competent  to  the  charge  of  Willy.  I  have, 
however,  thought  of  a  plan  which  will  pro 
mote  his  best  good.  I  know  of  a  person  who 
might  take  the  care  of  him,  who  is  entirely 
competent,  and  who  I  know  Willy  would 
be  happy  with.  I  want  you  to  promise  to 
give  me  your  sanction  to  my  choice,  and  aid 
me  in  my  plan." 

"  Surely  I  will  promise  to  agree  to  it,  if  it 
is  a  good  thing  for  my  child,"  said  Roberts. 

"  It  is,  I  can  solemnly  assure  you  the  best 
provision  that  can  be  made  for  him  :  only 
promise  ;  it  is  the  only  favor  I  ask  of  you." 

"  But  I  do  not  know  the  person,"  said  her 
husband. 

"  You  do  know  the  person,"  said  Fanny, 
"  and  you  do  know  him  to  be  upright,  and 
generous,  and  kind,  and  all  that  such  an  one 
should  be  ;  oh  promise  !  do  promise,  William  ! 
it  is  Fanny,  your  own  Fanny,  she  whom  you 
once  loved  so  well,  who  begs,  who  implores 
you  to  make  this  one  promise  to  her  ;  it  is  her 
last,  her  dying  request,  for  oh  my  head  is  so 
hot  it  must  be  consumed  ere  long  ! 

"  You  told  me  Fanny,  you  would  be  calm," 
said  Roberts,  greatly  alarmed. 

"  And  I  will  be,"  she  said,  with  a  calm  but 
yet  more  earnest  tone,  "if  you  will  only 


MARRIED    LIFE.  243 

promise.  But  oh,  promise  me  to  agree  to 
what  I  propose  for  Willy !  here  I  remain  on 
my  bended  knees  till  you  promise  ;  "  and  she 
actually  fell  upon  her  knees  before  him. 

In  a  state  of  unspeakable  agony  of  mind 
Mr.  Roberts  raised  her  from  the  floor,  and 
promised  to  agree  to  whatever  she  should 
propose.  With  a  strange  unearthly  expression 
of  joy,  Fanny  exclaimed,"  Thank  God!  I 
have  saved  my  child  !  Let  what  will  become 
of  me,  I  can  bear  it  now." 

"  What  are  you  going  to  do  with  our  boy  ?  " 
said  her  husband  ;  he  feared  that  she  was 
really  insane. 

"  I  am  going,"  she  said,  "  to  place  him 
with  his  only  safe  and  worthy  protector,  his 
only  truly  good  friend ;  one  who  will  teach 
him  what  is  right,  and  walk  himself  in  the 
way  he  points  out ;  one  who  is  just,  and  kind, 
and  oh,  so  patient !  One  who  will  never  let 
him  know  his  mother's  faults  ;  for  oh,  once  he 
loved  her !  it  is  in  his  father's  hands  I  put 
my  child,  my  only  earthly  treasure.  Take 
him,  dear  William,  take  our  dear  boy !  and 
keep  him,  and  guard  him  as  the  apple  of  your 
eye  ;  watch  over  him  day  and  night,  in  the 
early  morning,  and  in  the  feverish  noon-day. 
Shelter  him  in  your  arms  at  night,  keep  him 


244  SKETCHES    OF 

from  the  cold ;  be  mother  and  father  too,  to 
him.  If  he  is  sick,  let  no  one  sit  by  him  and 
nurse  him  but  you.  Lead  him  to  God.  Do 
all  this  !  oh,  I  know  you  will  do  all  this,  and 
more  than  this,  for  our  sweet  Willy  ;  and  oh, 
forget  and  forgive  his  faulty  mother,  who 
could  not  make  you  happy." 

Fanny  said  this  in  such  a  hurried  and 
vehement  manner,  that  it  was  in  vain  that 
her  husband  attempted  to  interrupt  her  with 
his  protest  against  taking  their  child  with 
him.  In  the  midst  of  his  agony  of  mind  at 
witnessing  his  wife's  sufferings,  and  his  ad 
miration  of  her  magnanimous  self-sacrifice,  he 
felt  a  strange  joy  thrill  through  his  whole 
soul. 

"  Be  composed,  my  dear  Fanny  ;  I  cannot 
take  away  our  boy  from  you,  I  never  will  do 
this.  Do  not  ask  this." 

"  Oh  but  you  have  promised  you  will,  and 
you  must  take  Willy  with  you." 

"  He  sha'nt  take  me  from  my  mother," 
said  the  child,  who  just  then  ran  in,  and 
heard  the  last  words. 

"  He  is  your  own  boy,  Fanny,  you  have 
the  best  right  to  him.  If  I  must  go,  I  will 
leave  our  dear  child  with  you." 

"  But  you  shall  not  go,  you  shall  not  leave 


MARRIED    LIFE.  245 

me,"  said  Willy.  "  I  will  stay  with  father 
and  mother  too;  let  me  hug  you  both  to 
gether."  And  with  his  little  but  irresistible 
strength  the  child  pulled  his  father  towards 
his  mother,  and  lifted  up  his  mother's  arm 
to  put  it  round  his  and  his  father's  neck ;  but 
it  dropped  lifeless.  Mr.  Roberts  caught  his 
wife,  just  as  she  was  sinking  on  the  floor. 

When  Fanny  recovered  from  the  heavy 
swoon  she  had  fallen  into,  she  was  seized 
with  violent  chills,  which  were  followed  by  a 
high  fever,  and  before  the  physician  who  was 
sent  for,  arrived,  her  mind  began  to  wander, 
with  all  the  symptoms  of  a  severe  and  dan 
gerous  illness. 

A  deeper  gloom  hung  upon  the  heart  of 
Mr.  Roberts  on  the  day  of  his  father's  funeral, 
than  that  which  even  the  most  affectionate 
son  feels  when  he  is  called  upon  to  consign 
to  the  grave  the  remains  of  the  being,  who 
has  been  the  author  of  his  earthly  existence, 
the  patient,  the  watchful,  the  ever-forgiving 
and  loving  guardian  of  his  childish  and  youth 
ful  days,  the  priceless  companion  and  friend 
of  his  maturer  life.  Deep  and  heartfelt  as  is 
this  sorrow  it  is  in  the  order  of  nature  ;  and 
the  aching  heart  readily  acknowledges  the 
duty  of  acquiescence.  So  felt  this  faithful 


246  SKETCHES    OF 

and  affectionate  son.  He  had  a  far  deeper 
sorrow  to  endure  ;  he  feared  that  the  being 
whom  he  had  taken  to  his  heart  with  the 
hope  and  belief  that  she  would  take  the  place 
of  all  other  earthly  affections  to  him,  that  she 
would  be  the  heart  of  his  heart,  and  the  life 
of  his  life,  the  joy  of  all  his  joys,  would  be 
taken  from  him  in  the  sweet  morning  and  blos 
soming  time  of  her  existence. — But  had  she  re 
deemed  the  pledge  and  promise  of  the  beauti 
ful  sunny  hours  of  her  early  days  ?  Had  she 
been  faithful  to  the  spirit  of  her  promise  of 
devoted  love  ?  Had  he  ?  Had  he  faithfully 
cherished  the  heart  that  had  committed  it 
self  so  trustfully,  so  fondly  to  his  care  ? 

These  last  questions  came  to  Roberts' 
mind  with  a  terrible  energy.  "  But,"  he 
said  to  himself,  "  she  does  not  love  me  as  I 
hoped,  as  I  desired  to  be  loved ;  she  would 
be  happier  without  me.  It  is  sad,  oh  terribly 
sad,  to  see  such  a  being  so  formed  for  enjoy 
ment,  so  young,  with  the  cup  of  happiness 
before  her  but  just  tasted,  to  see  her  snatched 
away  so  suddenly,  to  see  all  her  young  hopes 
blighted.  I  hoped  that  I  alone  should  be 
sacrificed ;  I  hoped  that  when  relieved  from 
my  presence  she  might  be  happy  ;  but  it  is  I 
that  have  killed  her." 


MARRIED    LIFE.  247 

Such  were  the  agonizing  thoughts  that 
passed  and  re-passed  through  the  mind  of 
the  miserable  man,  as  he  performed  the  last 
duties  to  his  departed  parent  When  he  re 
turned  from  the  dwelling-place  of  the  dead 
to  his  own  house,  a  more  fearful  coldness 
than  he  had  there  felt  came  upon  him  as  he 
heard  the  answer  to  his  inquiry  about  his 
wife,  from  the  doctor  whom  he  met  at  the 
door.  "  She  is  no  better ;  she  is  still  deliri 
ous,  I  think  her  case  a  very  alarming  one." 

"  Oh  that  I  could  die  to  save  her/'  exclaim 
ed  Roberts,  as  he  sat  down  at  his  lonely  fire 
side.  "  Oh  that  by  any  suffering,  or  sacrifice, 
I  might  restore  her  to  life  !  " 

"  Let  us  ask  our  Father  in  heaven  to 
make  mother  well,"  said  Willy  who  had 
crept  into  the  room,  and  climbed  his  father's 
knees,  and  put  his  arms  round  his  neck. 
"  Let  us  beg  him  very  hard,  dear  father,  and 
I  am  sure  he  will." 

His  father  folded  his  boy  in  his  arms,  and 
wept  with  him  ;  and  his  soul  seemed  refresh 
ed  and  strengthened  with  hope,  as  he  pressed 
the  little  fellow  to  his  aching  heart. 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 


"How  is 't 

That  in  affliction  only  we  can  see 
The  hand  of  God  leading  the  good  to  good, 
And  ministering,  by  man  himself,  to  man  1 " 

HERMAN  AND  DOROTHEA. 


THE  effort  that  Fanny  had  made  to  sur 
render  up  her  boy  to  the  care  of  his  father, 
had  evidently  accelerated  the  disease  which 
had  been  for  some  time  preying  upon  her 
nervous  system.  During  her  delirium,  she 
was  continually  repeating  her  directions  to 
his  father  about  the  care  of  Willy.  "  Do  n't," 
she  would  cry  out,  "  let  any  one  frighten  my 
little  boy.  Willy  is  a  brave  boy  now.  When 
he  is  sick,  he  will  cry  for  his  mother ;  then 
don't  be  angry  with  him,  but  hush  him 
gently ;  put  your  arms  around  him  softly, 
so ;  and  sing  to  him  very  sweetly,  so." 
Then  she  would  sing  such  wild  and  plain 
tive  notes,  that  the  heart  of  poor  Roberts 
was  like  to  break.  Sometimes  she  would 
exclaim,  "  Now  I  have  saved  my  boy.  Now 


SKETCHES    OF    MARRIED    LIFE.  249 

he  will  be  always  with  his  father.  Now  my 
husband  will  pity  me.  Now  God  will  for 
give  me,  and  take  me  to  his  care.  Have  I 
not  bound  and  laid  upon  his  altar  my  first 
born  —  my  only  son  ?  Will  no  angel  provide 
me  with  a  burnt-offering,  to  take  the  place  of 
my  heart's  treasure  ?  Yet  I  have  not  with 
held  my  son  —  my  only  son.  Will  not  God 
pity  me  now,  and  let  me  die  ?  Be  very  still, 
that  I  may  hear  the  angel  call  to  me  out  of 
the  heavens.  He  tells  me  that  God  has  ac 
cepted  my  sacrifice.  Yes ;  his  father  prom 
ised  to  take  him.  I  have  saved  my  son. 
Do  n't  let  Willy  say  good-bye  to  me  ;  I  can't 
hear  good-bye  from  Willy ;  but  let  him  hug 
me  close,  closer,  oh !  closer  still,  till  he  stops 
this  pain  in  my  heart. — One  of  these  days, 
when  it  will  not  make  him  cry  to  hear  her 
name,  tell  him  pretty  stories  about  his  mother, 
and  sing  him  the  little  songs  she  wrote  for 
him ;  tell  him  once  she  was  merry,  so  merry, 
more  merry  than  wise.  You  need  not  tell 
him  how  much  she  loved  him ;  he  never  will 
forget  it.  Willy  knows  his  mother  loves 
him.  But  his  father  does  not  know  so  well 
as  his  boy  does  about  his  Fanny ;  and  he  is 
a  grown-up  man,  and  my  Willy  is  a  little 
child,  and  yet  he  knows  more  than  his  father. 


250  SKETCHES    OF 

O,  Willy,  Willy,  must  I  let  you  go  ?  must  I 
sacrifice  this  Isaac  of  my  soul  ?  " 

Such  heart-rending  expressions  as  these 
was  Roberts  doomed  to  hear,  from  his  suf 
fering  wife,  for  three  long,  agonizing  weeks, 
when,  suddenly,  after  a  long  and  more 
quiet  sleep  than  she  had  had  for  some  time, 
she  opened  her  eyes,  and  knew  her  husband, 
who  was  sitting  by  her  bed-side,  watching 
her  with  an  intense  anxiety  in  his  face. 

"Give  me  a  little  drink,  my  dear,"  she 
said. 

O,  had  that  cup  of  cold  water,  which  her 
husband  gave  her  then,  purchased  for  himself 
eternal  life,  he  would  hardly  have  experienced 
a  greater  joy  than  he  felt,  when  he  saw 
Fanny  lift  up  her  bright  blue  eye  calmly  to 
his,  and  heard  the  music  of  her  natural  voice, 
as  she  pronounced  his  name,  and  gave  signs 
of  recovered  reason. 

Roberts,  who  was  unaccustomed  to  severe 
illness,  was  alarmed  to  find  that  his  wife's 
recovery  from  the  delirium  was  accompanied 
by  a  childlike  weakness  of  mind,  as  well  as 
body ;  and,  but  for  his  physician,  he  would 
have  been  thrown  into  utter  despair,  at  hear 
ing  her  speak  of  herself  and  him  with  a  total 
forgetfulness  of  all  that  had  passed  during 


MARRIED    LIFE.  251 

their  residence  in  New  York.  She  thought 
that  she  was  in  Boston,  and  that  her  illness 
was  occasioned  by  her  confinement,  and  was 
continually  asking  for  the  baby,  who,  she 
said,  must  be  called  Willy.  They  pacified 
her  by  telling  her  that  the  doctor  thought 
her  too  ill  to  see  him.  Her  husband  was  the 
only  person  she  knew. 

"Dear  William,"  she  said  to  him,  "what 
a  good  nurse  you  are  !  How  sweet  it  is  to 
have  you  take  care  of  me !  You  can  see  our 
boy,  though  they  will  not  let  me  see  him. 
Who  does  he  look  like  ?  It  is  to  be  hoped 
that  he  will  have  your  nose  and  my  eyes ; 
and  if  he  has  your  sense,  pray  let  him  have 
my  nonsense,  or  there  will  be  two  against 
one,  which  is  no  fair,  as  the  boys  say." 

It  seemed  as  if  her  husband's  heart 
would  now  burst  with  joy,  as  it  before  had 
been  near  breaking  with  hopeless  misery. 
Sometimes  he  almost  felt  selfish  enough  to 
dread  her  gaining  strength,  and  recovering 
her  memory,  lest  she  should  again  lose  her 
love  for  him. 

Gradually,  Fanny  began  to  recollect  the 
past.  A  most  careful,  skilful,  and  tender 
nurse  had  assisted  her  husband  in  taking 
charge  of  her  during  her  illness,  and  still 


252  SKETCHES    OF 

more  critical  recovery ;  and  she  seemed  much 
attached  and  very  dependent  upon  her.  About 
a  week  after  the  recovery  of  her  reason,  she 
said  to  her  husband,  when  the  nurse  was  out 
of  the  room,  "  I  have  an  indistinct  recollection 
of  having  seen  that  woman.  I  remember  her 
gown ;  arid  I  cannot  tell  how  it  is,  but  it 
makes  me  want  to  laugh  when  I  look  at  it  ; 
and  I  don't  like  her  then.  But  I  never 
knew  such  a  devoted,  tender,  excellent  nurse. 
What  is  her  name  ?  " 

Her  husband  evaded  the  question. 

"It  seems  to  me  that  I  have  seen  that 
gown  before,"  said  Fanny,  with  a  deep,  low 
emphasis,  and  a  sort  of  self-questioning  tone. 
"  It  seems  to  me,  William,  as  if  that  woman 
brought  some  horrid  dream  to  my  mind." 

"  Remember,"  said  her  husband,  "  that 
you  have  been  very  ill ;  and  the  doctor  says 
that  you  must  be  very  quiet." 

"  May  I  not  see  my  boy  to-day  ? "  said 
Fanny. 

"  If  the  doctor  consents,  my  love,  you 
shall." 

"  How  kind  you  are  to  me,  William ! " 
said  his  wife,  kissing  his  hand,  which  was 
holding  hers.  "  You  will  always  love  me  ; 
will  you  not  ?  " 


MARRIED    LIFE.  253 

"  So  help  me  God,  I  will !  "  replied  her 
husband. 

Fanny  gained  strength  so  fast,  that  in  a 
few  days  the  doctor  thought  her  husband 
might  venture,  when  she  asked  for  her  baby, 
to  tell  her  of  the  effect  of  her  illness,  and  let 
her  see  her  boy. 

"  Can  you  be  very  calm,"  said  Roberts, 
when  she  asked  for  her  child,  "  can  you  be 
very  calm,  and  hear  what  I  have  to  say  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  she  answered.  "  I  am  getting 
strong  so  fast,  that  I  can  promise  even  to  be 
quiet." 

"  You  must  know,"  said  her  husband, 
"  that  the  fever  you  have  had  has  destroyed, 
for  the  time,  your  memory.  Your  boy  is 
three  years  old,  and  you  think  he  is  only 
three  weeks.  We  are  in  New  York  —  not 
in  Boston." 

"  And  why  are  we  here  ?  "  said  Fanny ; 
"  why  are  we  here  in  New  York?  O,  now  I 
remember  I  have  not  seen  Amy  this  long 
while." 

"  My  father  sent  for  me  to  come  and  live 
with  him." 

"  Did  he  ? "  said  Fanny,  with  a  vacant 
and  yet  troubled  look,  like  that  of  a  person 
coming  to  his  senses,  after  being  stunned. 


254 


SKETCHES    OF 


"  Yes,  dear ;  he  sent  for  us.  and  we  moved 
here.  And  now,  if  you  should  like  it,  you 
shall  see  Willy,  and  kiss  him  ;  and  then  you 
must  try  to  sleep." 

He  was  anxious  to  stop  there  ;  and  he  took 
the  most  effectual  method  of  checking  his 
wife's  waking  memory,  by  mentioning  her 
boy. 

"  Yes,  O  yes,  let  me  see  my  child." 

The  little  fellow,  carefully  obeying  his 
father's  directions,  came  in  slowly,  on  tiptoe, 
and  went  up  to  his  mother.  She  held  him 
back  an  instant,  and  looked  like  one  whose 
eyes  are  dazzled,  as  the  returning, light  of  a 
mother's  memory  shone  on  the  form  and  face 
of  her  child.  Poor  Willy  could  bear  it  no 
longer. 

"Mother !  dear  mother !  I  love  you.  Do  n't 
you  know  me  ?  It 's  Willy  —  your  own 
boy,"  he  sdbbed  out,  and  nestled  his  head 
into  her  bosom. 

Tears,  blessed  tears,  came  to  the  relief  of 
the  poor  mother,  as  she  pressed  the  child  to 
her  heart.  Alas!  around  that  unutterable 
joy,  as  it  again  took  its  place  in  her  awak 
ened  memory,  clustered  so  many  terrible 
thoughts !  Her  husband  feared  this  moment, 
and  had  planned  various  ways  of  meeting  it  j 


MARRIED    LIFE.  255 

but  they  were  all  defeated,  and  a  better  way 
found  out,  by  the  untaught,  artless  address 
of  a  loving  child. 

"  Do  not  cry  any  m£>re,  mother,  now  ;  get 
well  directly,  mother.  Father  told  me  this 
morning  that  he  never,  never  would  leave  you, 
nor  me,  while  he  lived.  He  says  if  you  only 
get  well  we  will  all  live  together  and  try  to 
be  good  and  happy ;  and  I  have  been  want 
ing  to  get  into  your  room  ever  since  and  tell 
you  of  it,  for  I  knew  that  would  make  you 
well." 

Thus  did  the  angel  hand  of  her  own  sweet 
innocent  child  suddenly  lift  up  the  veil  which 
had  so  mercifully  for  her  been  dropped  over 
the  terrible  past ;  and  it  seemed  as  if  the 
darkness  and  dreariness  of  the  scene  were  dis 
sipated  by  the  heavenly  light  that  shone  from 
the  countenance  of  the  unconscious  little 
being,  who  had  thus  rendered  of  no  avail 
the  councils  of  his  elders. 

"  Is  it  so,  William  ?  Am  I  again  a  wife,  and 
a  mother?  Now  I  remember  all." 

"  It  is  so,"  said  her  husband,  "but  be  still 
now,  say  nothing  more.  The  rest  of  our 
lives  may  redeem  the  past.  Only  get  well, 
as  Willy  says." 

Gently  he  disengaged  the  child  from  her 


•' 

.  * 

256  SKETCHES    OF 


arms  and  led  him  out  of  the  room,  and  her 
kind  nurse  closed  the  curtains,  and,  exhausted 
with  her  emotions,  Fanny  fell  asleep.  At  the 
first  motion  she  made  when  she  awoke,  the 
nurse  was  by  her  side  offering  her  some  re 
freshment  after  sleep. 

"  You  are  Mrs.  Hawkins,"  said  Fanny. 

"Yes,  ma'am  I  am,"  answered  the  nurse. 

"  And  is  it  you  that  have  watched  by  me 
night  and  day  during  my  long  illness,  taking 
no  rest  yourself? " 

"  God  has  given  me  strength  to  do  my 
duty,  and  I  thank  him  for  it." 

"  I  have  never  deserved  anything  at  your 
hands,  and  you  have  been  as  kind  to  me  as  if 
you  had  been  my  mother." 

"  I  have  only  done  what  I  ought  to  do." 

"  But  your  tenderness,  and  kindness  —  I 
had  no  right  to  it." 

"  Yes  you  had,  for  you  were  a  great  sufferer 
and  I  was  able  to  help  you." 

"  But  I  had  sinned  against  you,"  said 
Fanny,  as  the  tears  rolled  down  her  face.  "  I 
had  laughed  at  your  appearance,  I  had  nick 
named  you." 

"  You  hurt  yourself  more  than  you  did  me 
by  that.  I  know  I  am  an  odd-looking  person. 
I  pitied  you,  and  so  I  helped  to  nurse  you." 


MARRIED    LIFE.  257 


"  Do  you  always  return  good  for  evil  ?  " 

"  When  I  can." 

"  Did  you  not  despise  me  when  I  was  so 
rude  to  you?  " 

"  1  despise  no  human  being." 

"  You  puzzle  me  ;  you  seem  so  contented 
and  yet  have  nothing  to  enjoy ;  what  makes 
you  so  satisfied  ?  " 

"  A  quiet  conscience,  and  the  pleasure  I 
find  in  doing  the  work  that  God  gives  me  to 
do.  He  gives  us  all  our  work." 

"  What  work  do  you  think  he  has  given 
to  you  ? " 

"  The  care  of  the  sick." 

"  And  are  you  not  wearied  and  dishearten 
ed  with  this  work  sometimes  ?  " 

"Never." 

"  Do  you  not  hope  some  day  to  rest  from 
these  hard  labors,  and  enjoy  your  own  time, 
and  the  recollection  of  how  much  good  you 
have  done  ?  " 

"  Yes,  in  heaven." 

"  I  have  been  very  unjust  to  you,"  said 
Fanny ;  "  I  ought  to  have  reverenced  your 
self-devotion,  and  loved  you  instead  of  laugh 
ing  at  you." 

"  Love  can 't  be  forced,"  answered  the 
housekeeper. 

17 


258  SKETCHES    OF 

"  Will  you  forgive  me  for  all  my  injustice 
to  you  ? " 

"  With  all  my  heart,"  replied  Mrs.  Haw 
kins. 

"  You  say,"  said  Fanny,  who  was  irresisti 
bly  induced  to  talk  to  her  new  friend,  as  she 
considered  her,  "  you  say  God  gives  to  all 
their  work  :  what  work  do  you  think  he  has 
given  me  ? " 

"  It  is  a  part  of  the  duty  of  a  child  to  find 
out  his  father's  wishes,  and  ask  of  him  what 
is  his  work.  Each  one  must  answer  that 
question  for  himself.  You  have  great  means, 
and  can  do  much." 

"  I  am  very  grateful  to  you  for  all  your 
kindness  to  me,"  said  Fanny  with  a  trembling 
voice,  "  and  most  of  all  for  pardoning  my  in 
justice  and  rudeness  towards  you." 

"  I  do  not  want  people  to  feel  grateful  to 
me,"  answered  Mrs.  Hawkins. 

"  You  mean  that  you  would  rather  be 
loved  than  be  thanked  ;  your  own  heart  must 
be  full  of  love  to  have  watched  by  me,  and 
labored  and  suffered  for  my  relief  and  comfort, 
when  I  deserved  nothing  but  blame  at  your 
hands ;  and  I  shall,  I  will,  I  do  love  you,  my 
good  and  kindr  and  forgivin^  friend.  You 
will  let  me  love  you." 


MARRIED    LIFE. 

The  tear  trickled  on  the  eyelid  of  Mrs. 
Hawkins  as  she  said,  "  God  has  made  all  our 
hearts  for  love,  and  we  all  crave  it.  In  his 
own  good  time  he  will  give  to  each  one  his 
share  ;  I  am  willing  to  wait.  But  you  must 
not  talk  any  more,  dear ;  it  will  hurt  you." 
Her  voice  quivered  with  emotion  as  she 
uttered  these  words,  and  Fanny  was  silent. 

The  whole  of  her  past  life  now  became 
present,  painfully  present  to  Fanny's  recover 
ed  mind.  She  was  still  too  weak  to  discuss 
any  painful  subject ;  and  her  husband's  only 
object  was  to  calm  and  cheer  the  present 
moment.  It  was  with  mingled  pain  and 
pleasure  that  he  heard  her  continually  repeat, 
"  You  do  then  love  me,  William  ?  " 

"  Better  than  my  own  life,  dear  Fanny," 
he  would  answer. 

"  And  you  will  not  leave  me  ?  " 

"Never  while  you  wish  me  to  remain 
with  you." 

"  How  is  my  dear  Amy  ?  has  nothing  been 
heard  from  her  ?  "  asked  Fanny,  "  I  pray  that 
her  precious  life  may  have  been  spared;  if 
she  had  been  able  to  come  she  would  have 
been  with  me  in  that  terrible  fever,  I  know." 

Her  husband  told  her  that  the  day  after 
she  was  taken  ill,  he  had  received  a  letter 


260  SKETCHES    OF 

from  his  friend  Selmar,  announcing  the  birth 
of  a  daughter,  and  that  Amy  and  her  child 
were  doing  very  well. 

"  How  long  ago  was  that  ?  "  asked  Fanny. 

"  Five  weeks,  my  dear  Fanny." 

"  Then  it  is  now  spring,  and  Amy  promised 
me  to  come  and  see  me  in  the  spring,  if  she 
should  be  the  happy  mother  of  a  living  child." 

"  And  she  is  coming  in  a  fortnight,"  replied 
her  husband,  "  if  you  are  well  enough  to  bear 
the  excitement  of  seeing  her." 

"  Oh  joy  !  joy  !  "  exclaimed  Fanny  ;  "  I 
will  be  well  enough.  I  am  sure  I  shall  be 
quite  strong  by  that  time,  never  fear,  dear 
William  ;  write  to  her  directly  to  come,  and 
her  husband,  and  baby  :  oh  beautiful !  To  see 
Amy  would  seem  to  me  like  gathering  hearts 
ease  again  in  my  mother's  garden,  when  she 
and  I  were  children,  and  used  to  dress  our 
selves  up  and  play  ancient  statues.  She  was 
fond  of  playing  Flora,  and  I  Minerva,  and  it 
was  then  that  I  first  saw  you  William,  a  great 
raw  school-boy  ;  and  how  you  laughed  at  the 
owl  on  my  head.  Oh  if  Amy  had  always 
been  with  me  I  should  have  been  a  better 
wife  to  you." 

"  Let  us  remember  the  sorrows  and  mis 
takes  of  the  past,  only  that  we  may  take  care 


MARRIED    LIFE.  261 

to  avoid  them  ;  and  let  us  cherish  the  recol 
lection  of  all  its  pure  pleasures,  as  a  pledge 
and  promise  of  what  is  in  store  for  us.  We 
will  call  up  again  those  sweet  dreams  of  our 
early  days,  dear  Fanny,  by  returning  to  that 
child-like  trust  and  unquestioning  love  which 
then  made  us  so  happy.  But  you  must  not 
talk  any  more,  your  pulse  is  much  too  quick ; 
while  we  have  been  talking,  it  has  beaten 
faster  and  faster,  till  now  I  can  scarcely  count 
it.  You  will  not  be  able  to  see  Amy  in  a 
fortnight,  if  you  do  not  keep  quieter  than  you 
have  been  for  these  last  few  minutes." 

"  Oh  but  I  will  be  very  still,  so  quiet,  and 
so  good  that  you  shall  not  believe  it  is  I ; 
only  write  to  Amy  to  come,  and  tell  her  that 
I  shall  be  quite  well,  and  so  tranquil  and  good 
that  even  she  will  scarcely  know  her  old 
friend." 

After  a  few  moments  of  thoughtful  silence, 
Fanny  suddenly  said,  "  I  think,  William,  I 
should  like  to  write  to  Amy  myself." 

"  But  you  are  hardly  able  to  write,  Fanny." 
Fanny  insisted  very  earnestly  that  she  was 
able,  and  that  it  was  only  a  few  lines  that 
were  necessary.  Her  husband  proposed  that 
she  should  dictate  and  he  write. 

"No,  no,  I  must  write  myself;  give  me 
some  paper,  and  pen,  and  ink," 


262  SKETCHES    OF  MARRIED    LIFE. 

"  Presently,"  replied  her  husband,  "  when 
you  are  rested  I  will  •  "  but  he  looked  as  if  he 
would  rather  not.  When  Fanny  wrote  her 
letter  which  was  very  short,  she  folded  and 
sealed  it  as  soon  as  it  was  finished.  Her 
husband  was  sitting  by  her,  and  it  was  with 
rather  an  effort  at  gaity  that  he  said,  "  you 
asked  for  no  message  from  me,  Fanny,  but 
have  hastily  sealed  up  your  letter  as  if  it  con 
tained  treason."  Fanny  blushed  and  looked 
disturbed. 

"  One  always  looks  like  a  fool  when  show 
ing  a  letter  of  one's  own  writing,  and  I  can 
never  forget  a  lady's  telling  me  when  I  show 
ed  her  a  letter  which  she  asked  to  see,  '  It 's 
a  very  good  letter,  but  if  I  had  been  you  I 
would  not  have  shown  it.' ' 

Mr.  Roberts  was  evidently  disappointed  ; 
his  reserve  which  had  lately  been  dissipated 
by  Fanny's  frankness  and  tenderness  began 
to  creep  over  him  again.  Both  were  silent. 
It  seemed  as  if  some  mysterious  invisible  evil 
presence  had  suddenly  disturbed  their  peace. 


CHAPTER  XIX. 


"  There  is  a  rose-lipped  seraph  sits  on  high, 
Who  ever  bends  his  holy  ear  to  earth, 
To  mark  the  voice  of  penitence,  to  catch 
Her  solemn  sighs,  to  tune  them  to  his  harp, 
And  echo  them,  in  harmonies  divine, 
Up  to  the  throne  of  grace."  MASON. 


WE  return  to  Edward  and  Amy.  When 
the  bustle  and  trouble  of  moving  were  over, 
and  they  were  all  established  in  their  very 
comfortable  but  less  elegant  house,  Edward 
and  Amy  came  to  the  conclusion,  that,  as  far 
as  their  individual  happiness  was  in  question, 
they  were  better  off  than  before ;  as  their 
present  style  of  living  left  them  more  time  for 
reading  and  for  the  enjoyment  of  each  other's 
society.  Mr.  Weston  prophesied  that  the 
men  of  property  and  standing  in  society 
would  now  forsake  them  entirely ;  that  the 
world  would  never  forgive  such  a  departure 
from  its  own  principles  ;  and  he  thought  that, 
in  some  respects,  they  deserved  the  censure 
and  neglect  that  they  would  surely  encounter. 


264  SKETCHES    OF 

Mr.  Weston,  to  imitate  his  own  style  of 
speaking,  was  right  in  some  respects.  Some 
of  the  rich  forsook  them ;  others  treated 
them  with  increased  respect  and  attention. 
Ruth,  whose  opinion  ought  not  to  be  neg 
lected,  said,  after  they  were  all  arranged,  that 
she  did  not  see  what  they  wanted  of  more 
money ;  that  enough  was  as  good  as  a  feast  ; 
and  that,  as  far  as  she  knew  of  such  things, 
she  had  observed  that  great  gains  and  great 
pains  went  together. 

Calmly  and  cheerfully,  and  with  a  holy 
trust,  that,  whether  she  lived  or  died,  it 
would  be  well  with  her,  Amy  met  her  trying 
hour ;  and,  as  has  been  before  mentioned,  she 
became  the  joyful  mother  of  a  living  child. 
With  a  yet  more  solemn  earnestness  than 
they  had  ever  before  felt,  did  these  happy 
parents  consecrate  themselves  anew  to  God, 
as,  with  tears  of  joyful  love,  they  thanked 
him  for  this  unspeakable  blessing. 

"  What  system  do  you  mean  to  follow,  in 
educating  your  daughter  ? "  said  Edward, 
one  day  ;  "authority  or  reason  —  persuasion 
or  force?  What  punishments  have  you  al 
ready  planned  ?  What  great  book  shall  you 
keep  on  your  work-table,  all  ready  to  refer 
to?" 


MARRIED    LIFE.  265 

"  The  punishments,"  replied  Amy,  laugh 
ing,  "  I  shall  leave  to  you.  Suppose  we 
make  a  plan,  as  the  children  make  stories,  as 
we  go  along  ?  One  thing  we  will  surely  do, 
Edward  ;  study  this  exquisite  instrument  be 
fore  we  play  upon  it.  The  great  book  of 
nature,  with  its  living  pictures,  is  always 
open,  and  we  will  teach  her  to  read  in  it 
with  us ;  and  from  the  book  of  life,  the  word 
of  God,  we  will  gather,  day  by  day,  lessons, 
which,  even  before  she  can  find  them  there 
herself,  if  we  are  but  faithful,  her  heart 
will  read  in  our  example.  This  is  my  sys 
tem." 

In  answer  to  Edward's  letter,  informing 
Mr.  Roberts  of  the  birth  of  their  child,  he 
received  a  letter  from  him,  telling  him  of  the 
death  of  his  father,  and  the  dangerous  illness 
of  his  wife.  Anxiously  and  with  an  aching 
heart  did  Amy  open  every  letter  from  New 
York,  till  that  came,  giving  the  blessed  news 
of  the  safety  of  her  friend,  and  of  her  restora 
tion  to  reason. 

The  weeks  passed  rapidly,  and  Fanny's 
letter  arrived,  saying  she  was  well  enough  to 
see  her  friend,  and  urging  her  to  come  imme 
diately.  A  short  postscript  was  added  to  it, 
requesting  Amy  to  bring  all  the  letters  which 


266  SKETCHES    OF 

she  had  received  from  her  since  her  residence 
in  New  York. 

All  Amy's  arrangements  for  leaving  home 
were  made,  and  Ruth  had  come  to  receive 
her  parting  directions,  as  the  next  day  was  to 
make  her  sole  manager. 

"  Are  you  not  afraid,  ma'am,  to  go  to-mor 
row  ?  "  said  Ruth,  with  a  portentous  look. 

"  Why,  Ruth,  should  I  fear  going  to-mor 
row  ? " 

"  You  know  it  says  in  the  almanac,  that 
there  will  be  an  eclipse  of  the  sun." 

"  Then  I  shall  have  a  fine  opportunity  of 
seeing  it,  in  the  steam-boat.  Why,  Ruth, 
should  we  fear  an  eclipse  ? " 

"  I  am  no  coward,  ma'am.  I  have  lived 
too  long  in  the  woods  to  be  scared  at  an  owl  ; 
but  I  never  saw  any  good  come  of  eclipses,  or 
comets  neither ;  and  I  do  feel  a  kind  o' 
chicken-hearted  about  your  going,  Mrs.  Sel- 
mar,  that 's  a  fact ;  and  I  shall  feel  dreadful 
lonesome  without  you  and  the  dear  babe." 

Amy  replied,  that  they  should  return  in  a 
few  days.  She  gave  her  some  further  direc 
tions,  and  told  her  that  she  had  nothing  more 
to  say.  "  I  know  you  will  take  good  care  of 
my  father,  Ruth.  I  trust  all  to  you." 

Ruth  still   lingered.     It   was  evident  she 


MARRIED    LIFE.  267 

had  something  weighing  heavily  on  her  mind. 
At  last,  she  took  courage,  and  began. 

"  There  is  something  else  that  I  feel  rather 
ugly  about,  ma'am.  I  wanted  just  to  speak 
a  word  to  you  about  it  before  you  went ;  but 
I  am  afraid  you  '11  think  it  ridiculous." 

"  What  is  it,  Ruth  ? "  said  Amy,  very 
kindly. 

"  Why,  ma'am,"  said  Ruth,  hanging  her 
head  one  side,  and  pulling  out  her  fingers, 
one  after  another,  to  their  full  length,  "  you 
know  the  old  saying,  There  's  ne'er  a  Jack 
without  a  Jill ;  and  Jerry  has  somehow  or 
other  thrown  dust  in  my  eyes,  so  that  I  do  n't 
see  but  what,  for  want  of  a  better,  I  may 
about  as  well  take  up  with  him  for  a  beau." 

Amy  found  it  hard  to  keep  her  countenance 
during  this  explanation. 

"  Do  you  mean,  Ruth,  that  you  intend  to 
marry  Jerry  ? " 

"  I  know  it  seems  ridiculous,  ma'am  ;  but 
I  have,  if  the  upshot  of  it  must  be  told,  come 
to  the  conclusion,  that  I  might  go  further, 
and  fare  worse ;  and  I  have  as  good  as  told 
Jerry  so." 

"  But,  do  you  love  Jerry,  Ruth  ?  " 

"  Why,  I  guess  I  kind  o'  love  him.  I  tell 
him  that  bad 's  the  best  of  the  men-folks ; 


268  SKETCHES    OF 

but  I  rather  guess  I  set  more  by  him  than  by 
any  other  of  his  species,  though  he  is  so  short." 

"  But,  are  you  sure,  Ruth,  that  you  shall 
be  happier  with  Jerry  than  you  are  with  me  ? 
Do  you  love  him  enough  to  trust  yourself  to 
him  ? " 

"Why,  ma'am,  nothing  in  life  is  certain 
but  death ;  but  I  feel  sure  enough  for  my 
own  satisfaction :  and,  you  know,  nothing 
venture,  nothing  have.  The  long  and  the 
short  of  it  is,  if  you  approve,  I  expect  I  shall 
marry  Jerry." 

"  I  shall  certainly  be  sorry  to  lose  you, 
Ruth ;  but,  if  you  are  really  attached  to  Jerry, 
and  feel  sure  that  you  will  be  happier  with 
him,  I  shall  be  very  glad  for  your  sake.  But 
a  woman  ought  to  be  very  cautious  to  whom 
she  binds  herself  for  life." 

"Yes,  ma'am,"  said  Ruth.  "I  have  al 
ways  thought  that  the  girls  who  marry,  as 
some  of  our  girls  do,  your  outlandish  foreign 
ers,  who  have  no  manners,  were  served  right 
for  their  folly ;  but  Jerry  is  one  of  our  own 
folks." 

"It  seems  to  me,  Ruth,"  said  Amy,  "I 
have  heard  you  laugh  at  Jerry." 

"  That,  ma'am,  is  one  way  I  try  whether 
a  beau  suits  me.  If  he  won't  let  me  have 


MARRIED    LIFE.  269 

my  own  way,  in  the  matter  of  talking  and 
laughing,  how  should  he  in  any  other  ?  And 
the  truth  is,  he  is  as  patient  as  Joh  with  me, 
when  I  take  to  .my  funning  ways." 

"  But  I  hope,  Ruth,  that  is  not  your  object 
in  marrying  Jerry,  —  to  have  your  own  way. 
He  may  also  like  his  way,  and  you  will 
quarrel." 

"  We  shall  both  have  our  own  way.  ma'am. 
It  takes  two  to  make  a  quarrel,  and  I  never 
mean  to  be  one.  I  guess  we  shall  be  peace 
able  enough.  I  always  thought  it  was  ridic 
ulous  for  married  folks  to  quarrel." 

"  Is  Jerry  a  religious  man,  Ruth  ? " 

"  You  may  be  sure  enough  of  that,  ma'am, 
or  I  should  never  have  taken  a  shine  to  him. 
It 's  not  a  fair  bargain  between  man  and  wife, 
when  one  lives  for  time,  and  the  other  for 
eternity." 

"  And  you  are  sure,  Ruth,  that  you  have 
well  considered  what  you  are  doing,  in  prom 
ising  to  marry  Jerry  ?  "  asked  Amy. 

"My  maxim,  ma'am,"  said  Ruth,  "is,  be 
slow  in  choosing  a  friend,  but  slower  still  in 
giving  him  up." 

Amy  perceived  that  Ruth's  mind  was  made 
up;  and  as  she  believed  Jerry  was  a  good 
fellow,  and  as  she  saw  that  Ruth  was  really 


270  SKETCHES    OF 

attached  to  him,  she  not  only  expressed  her 
approbation,  which  she  knew  was  what  Ruth 
desired,  but  the  great  pleasure  she  felt  at  the 
thought  that  she  would  have  a  faithful  and 
affectionate  friend,  who  would  stand  by  her 
through  life. 

Amy  and  her  husband  and  child  arrived 
safely,  at  the  appointed  time,  at  New  York ; 
and  the  friends  met  with  that  indescribable, 
almost  painful  delight  which  we  ever  feel  at 
meeting  with  one  whom  we  have  loved  from 
our  earliest  childhood,  and  from  whom  we 
have  fondly  thought  and  hoped,  in  our  child 
ish  faith,  never  to  part. 

"  I  shall  call  my  baby  Fanny,"  said  Amy, 
as  her  friend  pressed  it  to  her  heart. 

"  Heaven  grant  it  may  be  wiser  than  her 
for  whom  she  is  called,"  answered  Fanny. 

Selmar  and  Roberts  were  rejoiced  to  meet 
again,  after  so  long  an  absence.  It  was  a 
general  holiday  in  the  house.  Even  Mrs. 
Hawkins  said  a  great  many  things  that,  on 
another  occasion,  and  upon  further  considera 
tion,  she  would  have  called  superfluous.  And 
as  for  Willy,  he  was  like  a  canary-bird  at  a 
dinner  party,  —  singing,  dancing,  clapping  his 
hands,  and  chattering  without  heeding  that 
no  one  answered.  The  baby  he  called  his 
little  sister,  and  its  mother  his  own  aunt. 


MARRIED    LIFE.  271 

The  friends  had  a  deal  of  talk  about  every 
thing,  beginning,  as  friends  are  apt  to,  who 
have  much  on  their  hearts,  with  what  they 
cared  the  least  for.  Fanny  was  anxious  to 
know  if  Amy  had  brought  her  letters ;  and 
Amy  was  equally  anxious  to  ascertain  if 
Fanny  was  happier  than  when  she  last  wrote 
to  her ;  but  neither  spoke  for  some  time. 
At  last,  Fanny  began. 

"  I  hope  you  have  brought  my  foolish  let 
ters,  Amy.  I  believe  you  must  have  thought 
I  was  crazed  when  I  wrote  them,  or  perhaps 
trying  my  hand  at  novel- writing." 

"  I  have  brought  all  your  letters,  dear. 
And  now  tell  me,  all  jesting  apart,  are  you 
happy? " 

"  O  yes,"  replied  Fanny ;  "  happy  as  the 
day  is  long.  But  I  must  tell  you  all  first." 
And  she  went  back,  and,  with  much  pain, 
told  Amy  all  that  had  passed  till  the  present 
time.  "  And  now,"  she  continued,  "  I  want 
to  burn  all  those  letters,  and  forget  all  that 
has  passed." 

"  But,  have  you  told  your  husband  all  that 
you  felt,  Fanny  ? " 

"  O  no.  Why  should  I  ?  It  would  only 
give  him  pain." 

"  But  do  you  not  see  that  you  are  doing 


272  SKETCHES    OF 


now  the  very  thing  that  caused  the  estn 
ment  between  you  and  Roberts  ?  " 

"  How  ?  "  said  Fanny. 

"  Do  you  think,"  said  Amy,  "  that  if  you 
had  been  perfectly  open  and  confiding  to 
your  husband,  he  would  have  been  cold  and 
reserved  to  you  ?  " 

"  How  could  I  be  frank  with  him,  when 
he  was  so  silent  to  me  ?  How  could  I  tell 
him  that  his  chilling,  solemn  reserve,  when 
he  was  displeased,  hurt  me  more  than  any 
censure,  and  that  I  would  rather  he  would 
find  fault  with  me  every  hour  in  the  day  ? 
He  would  have  thought  me  a  fool." 

"  And  yet,"  answered  Amy,  "  if  you  do  not 
tell  him  all  this,  you  will  never  be  happy." 

"  Yes  I  shall ;  for  I  shall  be  more  careful 
not  to  do  wrong,  and  then  he  will  not  be 
displeased  ;  and  he  has  promised  that  all  shall 
be  forgotten  ;  and  I  am  sure  he  does  love  me 
as  well  or  better  than  ever." 

"  And  yet,  believe  me,  Fanny,  the  same 
thing  will  take  place  again,  unless  a  perfect 
understanding  is  established  between  you. 
The  flame  of  discontent  is  smothered,  not 
extinguished." 

"  O,  I  should  die,  he  knows  I  should  die, 
if  he  were  to  leave  me,  or  if  he  ever  were  to 


MARRIED    LIFE.  273 

appear  towards  me  again  as  he  has  this  last 
winter.  But  I  shall  never  give  him  occasion 
to  find  fault  with  me." 

"  Impossible,"  answered  Amy.  "  Even 
now,  I  doubt  not,  he  begins  to  wonder  why 
you  treated  him  as  you  say  you  did.  You 
must  be  open  as  the  day  with  your  husband, 
Fanny,  or  your  happiness  is  gone.  You 
must  tell  him  all  that  you  thought  and  felt, 
said  or  did.  You  must  not  keep  back  your 
opinion  of  his  faults  ;  you  must  not  extenuate 
your  own.  You  must  be  perfectly  true  with 
him." 

"  But  you  see,  Amy,  it  is  all  over  now ; 
and  we  are  so  happy !  " 

"  There  is  a  root  of  bitterness  in  all  your 
happiness,"  replied  Amy,  "  while  anything 
remains  between  you  unexplained,  untold. 
There  is  a  hidden  wound  in  your  love,  if 
aught  remains  unspoken  of ;  it  can  only  be 
healed  by  being  laid  bare.  If  there  exist 
anything  between  you  too  painful  to  be  spok 
en  of,  think  you  that  this  tender  spot  will 
never  be  touched  by  accident,  or  by  the  same 
cause  that  first  excited  it  ? " 

"  He  will  blame  me,  when  he  knows  all  I 
have  felt  and  said  to  you,  Amy." 

"No  matter,  my  dear  friend.  You  have 
18 


274  SKETCHES    OF 

nearly  made  shipwreck  of  all  your  peace 
in  this  life,  by  the  very  system  of  conceal 
ment  which  you  are  now  madly  commencing 
again.  Believe  me,  that  if  your  love  for  each 
other  cannot -bear  the  test  of  a  perfectly  frank 
and  fearless  confession  of  all  your  faults,  all 
your  mistakes ;  if  it  does  not  rest  on  truth, 
perfect  truth,  its  foundation  is  rotten,  and 
this  is  but  a  transient  respite  from  the  misery 
that  surely  awaits  you." 

"Can  I  do  this?"  said  Fanny.  "Can  I 
go  over  the  hateful  past,  and  call  up  those 
terrible  hours,  that  I  am  trying  to  forget  ?  " 

"  Look,  Fanny,  at  the  cause  of  all  your 
misery,  and  you  will  find  it  was  not  any 
Very  wrong  thing  that  either  of  you  did ;  not 
a  want  of  love,  but  it  was  a  want  of  trust  in 
each  other  —  a  want  of  truth.  Each  was 
playing  a  part,  till  each  became  convinced 
that  the  real  character  was  lost  in  the  assumed 
one.  Your  love  for  each  other  could  not 
grow,  thus  smothered  and  warped  ;  it  has 
barely  survived.  Could  you  daily,  and,  as 
the  Christian  wife  should,  with  every  passing 
moment,  give  thanks,  in  your  heart,  to  God, 
for  the  possession  of  a  friend  to  whom  you 
are  perpetually  false  ?  " 

"  O,  not  false,  Amy  ;  that  is  too  hard." 


MARRIED     LIFE.  275 

"  Yes,  false,  Fanny.  You  must,  in  such 
a  relation,  be  perfectly  true  in  every  thing, 
or  you  are  false." 

While  Fanny  and  Amy  were  talking,  Mr. 
Roberts  came  in.  Fanny  unconsciously  put 
the  letters,  that  were  lying  on  the  table,  out 
of  sight.  Her  husband  observed  it,  and 
looked  embarrassed  and  hurt.  The  ladies 
were  silent,  at  his  entrance. 

"  I  fear  that  I  am  an  intruder,"  he  said. 
"  You  have,  perhaps,  some  private  affairs." 
This  was  said  in  a  constrained  tone  ;  and  he 
rather  abruptly  left  the  room. 

"  He  saw  me  hide  these  foolish  letters,  and 
supposed  that  there  really  was  some  important 
secret  between  us,"  said  Fanny,  in  a  fretful 
tone,  and  half  speaking  to  herself.  "  It 's  a 
pity  he  came  in." 

"  And  is  there  not  some  important  secret 
hidden  from  your  husband  ? "  replied  Amy. 
"  Have  you  not  something  on  your  heart, 
and  in  your  thoughts,  which  you  think  you 
cannot  say  to  him  ?  And  can  you  bear  the 
reality,  while  you  are  annoyed  and  pained  at 
the  mere  appearance  ?  " 

"  O,  but  it  was  foolish  in  Roberts  to  be  so 
troubled  by  such  a  trifle.  These  letters 
might  have  related  only  to  your  concerns." 


276  SKETCHES    OF 

"  He  would  naturally  wonder,  then,  why 
you  did  not  say  so  —  why  you  should  hide 
them.  He  would  know  that  you  could  not 
suppose  he  would  look  at  any  letters  unbid 
den.  Were  you  not  afraid  that  he  would 
recognize  your  hand-writing  ?  " 

"  It  is  true,"  said  Fanny  ;  "  and  I  am  sorry 
they  were  not  burnt  immediately." 

"  And  will  you  carry  that  about  in  your 
heart,  which  you  would,  when  on  paper, 
desire  to  burn,  and  yet  call  yourself  a  true, 
and  loving,  and  happy  wife,  Fanny  ?  " 

"  But  I  am  a  true,  and  loving,  and  shall  be 
a  happy  wife,  if  my  husband  will  not  have 
this  foolish,  jealous  sensitiveness  about  tri 
fles." 

"  But  the  fact  is,  that  he  is  sensitive,  and 
that  you  kftoW  he  is,  Fanny.  A  man  like 
Roberts,  whose  love  is  so  tender,  so  refined, 
so  elevated,  cannot  be  satisfied  with  an  affec 
tion  which  would,  perhaps,  satisfy  a  coarser 
mind.  He  wants  an  entire  love,  an  entire 
trust  —  entire  truth.  He  cannot  bear  to 
be  doubted,  or  feared,  or  separated  from  his 
wife,  even  in  trifles." 

"  I  do  not  fear  him.  I  know  that  he  would 
forgive  me  for  anything  that  ought  to  be  for 
given." 


MARRIED    LIFE. 


277 


"  Yes  you  do,  Fanny  ;  you  fear  that  he 
will  discover  what  you  have  yet  been  will 
ing  to  say  to  me.  I  think  you  have  given 
your  husband  reason  to  complain  of  you,  and 
to  be  jealous  of  your  affections,  within  this 
hour." 

"  He  has  never  said  this  to  me,"  replied 
Fanny,  thoughtfully. 

"  In  that  he  has  been  wrong,  and  you 
should  say  so  to  him ;  but  he  may  have 
thought  that  unless  this  perfect  confidence 
were  voluntary  it  was  worth  nothing." 

"  But  would  you  have  me  tell  my  husband 
every  thing  I  say  and  do,  and  feel,  and  have 
done  or  said  and  felt,  Amy  ?  " 

"Yes,  every  thing  that  he  can  wish  to 
know  ;  nothing  is  a  trifle  if  he^  can  care  for 
it.  You  should  have  but  one  heart  between 
you." 

"  How  can  I  be  good  enough  to  show  my 
whole  foolish  heart,  my  whole  whimsical 
and  faulty  character  to  my  husband ;  what 
will  he  think  when  he  really  sees  me  as  I 
am." 

"  If,"  replied  Amy,  "  he  finds  in  your  heart 
an  entire  love  for  himself,  a  perfect  devotion 
to  truth,  and  an  earnest  desire  to  cure  all 
your  faults,  to  be  excellent ;  if  he  finds  that 


278  SKETCHES    OF 

you  hunger  and  thirst  after  perfection,  rely 
upon  it  that  even  your  faults  will  form 
another  bond  of  union  between  you.  There 
is  nothing  so  touching  to  a  generous  mind,  as 
that  entire  trust,  which  induces  a  loving 
heart  to  pour  out  to  another  all  its  weaknesses, 
all  its  errors,  even  all  its  sins.  We  love  each 
other  not  so  much  for  what  we  are  as  for  what 
we  would  be.  It  is  that  divine  beau  ideal 
which  each  one  who  aspires  after  excellence 
carries  within,  which  is  the  real  being. 
Would  you  hide  this  from  your  husband? 
No,  Fanny,  I  know  you  would  not ;  and  its 
first  and  most  unquestioned  feature  is  a  re 
nunciation  of  that  self-love  which  would  hide 
or  vindicate  our  follies  or  our  faults." 

Fanny  made  no  answer ;  but  her  eyes 
glistened,  and  Amy  thought  she  saw  some 
noble  purpose  working  in  her  heart,  and  she 
left  her.  A  few  moments  after,  Fanny  sent 
for  her  husband. 

"  Are  you  at  leisure  ?  "  she  said,  "  I  have 
something  I  wish  to  say  to  you." 

"  Quite,  Fanny ;  but  from  your  looks  I 
fear  it  is  something  painful,  and  I  think  ex 
citement  is  bad  for  your  health." 

"  Never  mind  that,"  replied  Fanny  ;  there 
are  things  more  important  than  health,  or  life, 


MARRIED    LIFE.  279 

William ;  and  I  have  come  to  the  conclusion 
that  you  and  I  must  speak  of  them."  Her 
husband  looked  much  troubled,  and  waited 
for  her  to  proceed. 

"  We  have  not  been  as  happy,  William,  as 
we  ought  to  have  been  together,  certainly  as 
we  hoped  to  be  ;  have  we  ?  " 

"  Let  us  not  speak  of  the  past,  Fanny  ;  I 
cannot  bear  it."  Fanny  was  resolved  to 
proceed. 

"  If  we  cannot  bear  to  speak  of  it,  how  can 
we  bear  to  think  of  it  ?  Shall  we  carry  that 
in  our  hearts  which  we  cannot  trust  to  our 
lips  ? " 

"  But  what  is  the  use  of  it  Fanny  ?  " 

"  That  we  may,  by  confessing  and  under 
standing  our  mistakes  learn  to  correct  them. 
I  have  been  the  most  faulty,  William :  no  one 
who  does  not  see  our  hearts  can  tell  who  has 
suffered  most ;  but  Heaven  knows  I  have 
suffered  enough." 

"  I  hoped  I  had  been  the  greatest,  the  only 
sufferer ;  but  let  us  not  talk  of  such  painful 
things,  it  will  destroy  you,  Fanny ;  I  will  not 
consent  to  it,  and  I  cannot  bear  it." 

"  If  I  die,"  answered  his  wife,  "  all  must 
now  be  said,  all  must  be  told  to  the  last 
word,  all  confessed  to  the  veriest  trifle.  You 


280  SKETCHES    OF 

must  bear  it,  let  it  be  ever  so  painful,  and  I 
must  speak  if  these  should  be  my  last 
words.  Amy  is  right ;  our  love  has  a  rotten 
foundation  if  we  have  anything  between  us 
that  may  not  be  spoken  of.  I  will  make  a 
clean  breast  to  you  now,  if  I  never  have 
before." 

"  Dear  Fanny,  we  have  suffered  too  much  ; 
all  is  now  as  if  it  had  never  been ;  there  is  no 
danger  that  we  shall  commit  the  same  faults." 

"  Within  this  hour  we  have  both  committed 
the  same  faults  that  have  caused  all  our 
misery.  I  tried  to  hide  these  letters,  and  you 
were  hurt,  and  you  did  not  tell  me  so.  This 
was  untrue  in  me,  and  not  right  in  you." 
Fanny  then  reminded  her  husband  of  the 
letter  she  wrote  to  Amy,  and  asked  him  if 
he  were  not  hurt  at  her  not  showing  it  to 
him.  He  confessed  he  was.  "  Then  why," 
said  Fanny,  "  did  you  not  say  so  ?  " 

"  I  feared  to  give  you  pain." 

"  Very  like,"  said  Fanny,  "  I  should  not 
then  have  told  you  the  truth  ;  but  hencefor 
ward  I  promise  to  speak  the  truth  to  you,  cost 
what  it  may  ;  and  I  have  a  right,  William,  to 
demand  the  same  of  you.  It  will  be  our 
only  security  for  happiness.  What  I  wished 
to  hide  from  you,  William,  was  a  postscript 


MARRIED    LIFE. 


281 


to  my  letter  to  Amy,  asking  her  to  bring  me 
all  the  letters  I  had  written  to  her  since  our 
marriage.  There  they  are,  and  Amy's  an 
swers.  I  meant  to  burn  them ;  but  Amy  has 
convinced  me  that  I  had  better  tell  you 
everything,  and  show  them  to  you  first ;  take 
them,  and  read  them  all." 

Fanny  then  gave  her  husband  the  letters. 
While  he  was  reading  she  was  perfectly 
silent.  When  he  had  finished,  she  told  him 
calmly  all  she  had  endured  from  his  silence, 
his  reserve,  and  finally,  from  the  conviction 
that  he  did  not  love  her.  She  told  him  of 
everything  she  had  thought  and  felt.  Her 
husband  heard  her  in  profound  silence ;  but 
his  rising  color,  and  his  quivering  lip  showed 
how  deeply  he  was  moved.  At  last,  as  she 
spoke  of  her  sufferings,  he  bowed  his  head, 
and  covered  his  face  with  his  hands,  and 
groaned  out,  "  Oh,  Fanny,  can  you  indeed 
forgive  me  ?  I  have  been  unfaithful  to  my 
marriage  vow ;  I  have  sinned  against  my 
own  heart,  and  against  you  in  the  sight  of 
God." 

"  We  have  both  sinned."  sobbed  out  Fan 
ny  ;  "  but  the  future  is  before  us,  let  us  do  so 
no  more." 

"  Had  I  been  open,  and  trustful,  and  true  — 


282  SKETCHES    OF    MARRIED    LIFE. 

had  my  love  been  what  it  ought  to  have 
been,  Fanny,  all  this  misery  would  have 
been  saved." 

"  Let  us  be  true  and  faithful  for  the  future," 
said  Fanny,  as  her  head  fell  like  that  of  a 
wearied  and  repentant  child  on  her  husband's 
bosom. 

"  Henceforward,"  he  said,  and  pressed  her 
to  his  heart,  "  we  will  do  better ;  hencefor 
ward  we  will  be  true  to  each  other.  We 
cannot  have  perfection,  but  we  may  have 
truth,  we  may  have  real  love. 

"  What  a  load  is  off  my  heart !  "  said 
Fanny,  as  she  finished  telling  Amy  of  what 
had  passed  between  her  and  her  husband.  "  I 
feel  so  calm,  so  fearless,  so  sweetly  peaceful. 
Bless  you,  dear  Amy,  for  your  truly  faithful 
and  wise  counsel ;  you  have  saved  me  from 
misery,  from  worse  than  death." 

Mr.  Selmar's  business  allowed  of  only  a 
short  stay,  and  he  and  Amy  returned  with 
their  hearts  overflowing  with  joy,  at  having 
witnessed  the  return  of  health  and  peace  to 
the  abode  of  their  friends. 


CHAPTER  XX. 


"  'T  is  summer,  glorious  summer — 

Look  to  the  glad  green  earth, 

How  from  her  grateful  bosom 

The  herb  and  flower  spring  forth. 

These  are  her  rich  thanksgivings  ; 

Their  incense  floats  above. 

Father  !  what  may  we  offer  1 

Thy  chosen  flower  is — love."        LOUISA  PARK. 


IT  was  near  sunset,  on  a  fine  day,  in  the 
latter  part  of  spring,  when  some  travellers 
slowly  ascended  a  long  steep  hill.  The 
party  consisted  of  a  gentleman,  and  his  wife, 
and  a  little  girl  of  about  three  years  of  age. 
They  were  walking,  in  order  to  relieve  the 
horse  of  their  weight,  while  he  was  slowly 
dragging  up  their  light  travelling  carriage. 

"  Poor  old  Robinette  is  so  tired ;  let  him 
rest  on  the  top  of  the  hill,"  said  the  father  of 
the  little  girl  who  was  impatient  to  get  in, 
and  find  herself  going  again." 

"  But  Willy  is  waiting  for  me,"  said  the 
child,  as  she  threw  back  her  golden  ringlets, 


284  SKETCHES    OF 

and  looked  up  in  her  father's  face ;  "  Willy 
wants  to  see  his  little  Fanny." 

"You  will  soon  see  him,"  replied  her 
mother.  "  Look  Fanny  at  that  pretty  blue 
smoke  curling  up  out  of  that  green  wood  in 
the  valley ;  and  see  that  pretty  white  house. 
At  the  window,  shining  like  gold  with  the 
4ight  of  the  setting  sun,  I  think  I  see  a  little 
boy  about  Willy's  age."  • 

"  Yes  !  yes !  it  is  he  —  oh  now  he  is  gone. 
Mother,  mother,"  continued  the  child,  "  the 
water  looks  as  if  it  was  on  fire  ;  and  see  how 
many  flowers  are  on  the  trees :  will  not 
Willy  give  me  as  many  as  I  want  ?  he  has  so 
many." 

It  was  the  time  of  the  apple-blossoms, 
and  the  whole  country  looked  like  a  flow 
er-garden  ;  the  air  was  loaded  with  their 
delicious  perfume.  At  the  foot  of  the  hill 
upon  which  the  travellers  stood,  contempla 
ting  the  scene  below,  ran  a  wild  mountain 
stream,  through  a  narrow  valley.  Scattered 
along  its  beautifully  wooded  banks  were  the 
villagers'  houses,  and  rising  up  from  the  midst 
of  them  was  a  small  white  church ;  the 
glittering  weather-cock  on  its  spire  caught  the 
last  rays  of  the  sun,  as  it  seemed  to  bid  a  re 
luctant  farewell  to  the  quiet  scene  below. 


MARRIED    LIFE.  285 

"  Hark !  Fanny,  hear  the  water-fall !  "  said 
the  father  of  the  little  girl,  whose  incessant 
chattering  made  it  almost  impossible  to  hear 
any  thing  else  ;  "  and  hear  the  birds  singing 
their  go-to-bed-songs ;  and  hark !  that  is  the 
bell  from  the  factory,  calling  the  workmen 
and  women  and  children  all  to  their  suppers, 
and  telling  them  that  their  labor  is  done." 

"  See  all  the  factory  people,"  said  the 
mother,  "  see  them,  Fanny,  through  the  trees 
running  along  by  the  little  foot-path  on  the 
side  of  the  hill,  so  glad  to  go  home." 

"  That  is  Willy  running  up  the  hill,  mother  ; 
is  it  not  ?  Oh  let  me  get  out  again,"  said 
little  Fanny,  as  they  began  to  descend. 

"  We  will  take  him  in,  if  it  is  he,"  said  her 
father.  In  a  minute  they  came  up  to  him. 

"  What  is  your  name,  my  little  fellow  ?  " 
said  the'gentleman. 

"  Willy  Roberts ;  and  are  not  you  uncle 
Edward,  and  aunt  Amy  Selmar,  and  little 
Fanny  ? " 

"  Yes,  we  are  ;  "  and  in  another  moment 
the  child  was  in  their  arms. 

"  Go  fast,"  said  the  boy  ;  "  father  and 
mother  do  n't  know  you  have  come.  I  saw 
you  on  the  top  of  the  hill  from  the  upper 
chamber  window,  and  thought  I  would  come 


286  SKETCHES    OF 

and  see  if  it  was  you,  and  run  and  tell  them 
first.  They  are  in  the  piazza  on  the  other 
side  of  the  house,  that  looks  out  on  the  river." 
"  Father  !  mother  !  here  is  my  little  sister 
Fanny,  and  uncle,  and  aunt  Selmar,  and 
Robinette  ;  "  screamed  out  Willy,  as  they 
stopped  at  the  door ;  and  in  an  instant  the 
friends  were  clasped  in  each  others'  arms. 
"  Dear  Amy  !  "  "  Dear  Fanny !  "  was  all  the 
two  cousins  could  say  for  some  time.  At  last 
Fanny  looked  round  for  her  little  namesake. 
She  was  no  where  to  be  seen  ;  Willy  had 
appropriated  her  to  himself,  and  had  gone  to 
show  her  the  pigs,  and  the  poultry-yard,  the 
old  dog,  and  his  new  wagon  and  hoe,  the 
cow-yard,  and  the  garden.  Little  Fanny,  to 
whom  all  these  were  novelties,  was  in  an  ec 
stasy  at  everything  she  saw.  Willy,  who  was 
so  familiar  with  them  all,  and  who  always  said 
our  pigs,  our  chickens,  our  cow,  was  in  her 
estimation  as  great  a  hero  as  ever  was  the 
most  valiant  and  successful  knight  in  the 
days  of  yore,  in  the  eyes  of  his  admiring 
mistress.  When  the  mothers  found  the  chil 
dren,  Fanny  was  standing  with  her  bosom 
stuck  full  of  dandelions,  apple-blossoms  and 
violets,  and  a  bunch  of  lilacs  dangling  from 
her  belt,  looking  up  into  Willy's  face  with 


MARRIED    LIFE.  287 

her  great  laughing  blue  eyes  wide  open,  and 
full  of  solemn  wonder,  and  almost  oppressive 
delight,  listening  to  a  grand  story  Willy  was 
telling  her  of  a  battle  between  the  turkey 
cock  and  himself,  in  which  Willy  was  of 
course  the  brave  and  triumphant  conqueror. 

"  Come  and  speak  to  your  aunt  Fanny," 
said  Amy  to  her  little  girl ;  the  child  turned, 
and  after  one  look  held  up  her  face  for  a  kiss. 

"  Call  her  mother,  as  I  do,"  said  Willy  ; 
"  because  you  know  you  are  my  little  sister ; 
but  come  and  see  my  little  brother  ;  he  shall 
be  your  brother  too."  And  away  they  ran 
into  the  house  and  up  to  the  nursery  to  see 
the  baby.  Tears  came  into  Amy's  eyes. 
Fanny  observed  them,  and  said,  "  Come  and 
see  my  flower-garden  ;  it  is  not  quite  dark." 
She  wished  to  divert  Amy's  thoughts  ;  but 
they  were  precious  thoughts  to  Amy  that  had 
brought  tears  into  her  eyes,  and  she  said  to 
her  friend,  "  I  wish,  Fanny,  you  had  seen 
our  little  Edward  ;  he  was  a  lovely  thing,  and 
the  remembrance  of  him  is  very  dear  to  us  ; 
for  worlds  I  would  not  part  with  it." 

"  This  is  what  I  expected  from  you,  Amy  • 
your  faith  I  know  is  a  reality.     How  did  your 
husband  bear  the  loss  of  his  little  boy  ?  " 
"  Do  not  say  lost.  Our  little  Fanny,  with  all 


288  SKETCHES    OF 

the  visible  signs  of  life,  hardly  seems  a  more 
real  an  existence  to  us  both,  than  does  our 
sweet  angel  baby." 

"  But  how  could  you  bear  the  parting  ?  " 

"  It  was  very  hard,  Fanny ;  and  we  wept 
as  parents  must  weep.  My  heart  was  very 
lonely  for  a  while,  when  my  vacant  arms  found 
no  infant  to  press  to  it ;  and  now  when  I 
hear  the  words  little  brother,  and  think  of  my 
little  girl  left  without  her  natural  friend  and 
playmate,  I  sorrow  for  her  sake  even  more 
than  our  own ;  for  to  us  the  child  lives,  and 
is  still  a  blessing  to  us." 

Amy  spoke  with  the  same  trustful  se 
renity  upon  this  subject  as  she  did  upon 
others.  Fanny  felt  that  her  religion  was  a 
truth,  and  therefore  a  source  of  joy ;  not  a 
mournful  refuge  from  sorrow  when  no  other 
happiness  is  within  reach.  It  was  to  her  the 
vital  principle  of  peace  and  gladness,  the 
daily  bread  of  a  satisfied  heart. 

"  It  does  me  good,"  said  Fanny,  "  to  hear 
you  speak  so ;  I  know  that  you  think  it  right 
and  wish  to  feel  so ;  but  to  see  that  you 
really  do,  now  that  the  trial  has  come,  that 
strengthens  my  faith,  Amy,  more  than  all 
arguments." 

"  Let  us  follow  the  children,  and  see  the 
baby ;  "  said  Amy. 


MARRIED    LIFE.  289 

»      ,.***''>.*.    "*"     '"*'•-'* 

"  Mother,"  said  little  Fanny,  "  the  baby 
looks  like  brother,  and  has  the  same  name 
—Edward." 

"You  have  no  brother  Edward,"  said 
Willy. 

"Yes  I  have,  Willy." 

"  Where  is  he  ?  in  Boston  ?  Why  did  you 
not  bring  him  ?  " 

"  Father  and  mother  say  that  he  is  in 
heaven." 

Willy  was  silent.  He  remembered  what 
his  mother  had  said  to  him  of  the  death  of 
his  little  cousin. 

Tea  was  announced,  and  Willy  ran  to  call 
the  gentlemen. 

Tea  was  over,  the  children  were  abed, 
and  the  birds  were  in  their  nests.  The  deep, 
full,  pervading  roar  of  the  water-fall  not  far 
from  the  house,  was  the  only  sound  that,  like 
a  low  running  bass,  harmonized  with  the  con 
versation  of  the  four  friends.  "  What  do  you 
think,"  said  Fanny,  "  of  my  being  the  Goody 
of  the  village  ;  I  am  the  moni tress,  the  Jack- 
at-a-pinch  upon  all  occasions.  If  they  have 
a  quilting-match,  they  send  for  me  to  tell 
them  stories  and  be  agreeable  to  them  ;  if  a 
girl  has  an  offer,  the  mother  consults  me  ;  if 
any  child  is  unruly,  they  ask  my  advice  of  the 
19 


290  SKETCHES  or 

best  way  to  tame  it.  They  come  to  me  for 
recipes  for  making  pickles,  for  curing  beef, 
pork,  disobedient  children,  and  unruly  horses. 
Only  yesterday  a  good  woman  came  here 
on  horseback  upon  a  man's  saddle,  on  an 
old  horse,  and  wanted  me  to  get  on  and  take 
a  ride,  and  see  if  I  could  cure  the  wicked  ani 
mal  of  tripping  ;  another  comes  to  ask  me  for 
something  strengthening  for  her  stomach  ; 
and  since  they  have  seen  our  nice  medicine- 
chest,  I  should  not  be  surprised  if  they  were 
to  come  to  me  for  pills  against  thunder 
storms  and  earthquakes." 

"  Stop,  stop,  Fanny,  this  is  not  fair,"  said 
her  husband ;  "  you  are  running  away  with 
all  the  honors  of  the  place,  and  will  have  no 
breath  even  to  relate  mine.  Am  I  not  lawyer, 
doctor,  and  schoolmaster,  of  the  place  ?  do  n't 
they  call  me  Squire,  Dr.,  your  Honor,  Elder, 
Major,  &c.  &c.  ?  I  mean  to  have  a  gold- 
headed  cane,  and  a  larger  hat,  and  try  to  look 
more  respectable  in  your  eyes  at  least,  so  that 
I  need  not  be  overlooked  entirely,  by  you, 
my  lady  Bountiful." 

"  Fear  not  that  I  should  forget  you,"  said 
Fanny.  "  You  and  your  committee  men, 
your  Lyceum  gentlemen,  your  politicians,  and 
your  tribe  of  boys,  leave  marks  enough  on  my 


MARRIED    LIFE.  291 

carpet  to  make  it  sure  you  will  be  remember 
ed.  When  we  go  to  walk,  there  is  not  a 
head  of  any  description  that  does  not  nod  to 
him  as  he  .passes,  with  a  sort  of  hail-fellow- 
well-met  look  and  manner.  The  boys  pull 
the  tail  of  his  coat,  some  of  the  men  almost 
slap  him  on  his  shoulder,  others  hold  him  by 
the  button-hole,  and  I  doubt  not  they  will 
send  him  for  their  representative  to  Congress, 
and  then  he  will  be  the  honorable  Mr.  Rob 
erts,  and  I  Mrs.  honorable." 

"  I  confess,"  said  Mr.  Roberts,  "  that  my 
estimate  of  this  office,  and  of  the  people  at 
large  has  changed  since  I  left  the  city. 
In  cities,  public  officers  are  chosen  simply 
for  their  politics,  in  country  towns,  some 
thing  more  is  required  ;  if  they  are  not  mor 
al  and  religious  men,  there  are  many  who 
will  not  vote  for  them.  My  love  and  rever 
ence  for  human  nature  has  much  increased 
during  our  residence  in  the  country." 

"  Do  tell  them  about  the  church  steeple," 
said  Fanny.  "  But  where  is  Mrs.  Hawkins  ? 
she  is  so  modest  she  will  very  like  think  we 
do  n't  want  her." 

Fanny  went  out,  and  in  a  moment  return 
ed  with  the  good  housekeeper. 

"  Sit  here.  Mrs.  Hawkins  ;  you  will  love 
to  hear  the  steeple  story  againr  I  know." 


292 


SKETCHES    OF 


"Fanny,"  said  Roberts,  laughing,  "makes 
me  tell  this  story  to  everybody.  A  very  poor 
man  in  our  town,  a  carpenter,  had  contracted 
to  build  the  steeple  to  our  new  church ;  it 
was  to  be  raised  up  into  its  place  after 
it  was  finished.  The  poor  fellow  expended 
in  making  it  every  farthing  he  could  com 
mand,  much  of  which  was  borrowed  from  his 
fellow-townsmen.  It  was  completed  accord 
ing  to  the  contract,  it  only  wanted  to  be 
raised ;  the  levers,  and  pulleys  were  all 
placed,  the  crowd  were  assembled,  people  had 
come  from  far  and  near,  to  witness  the  raising 
of  the  steeple.  The  carpenter's  wife  and 
eight  children  had  the  best  place  for  seeing 
assigned  to  them.  Yery  soon  the  steeple 
began  to  rise  ;  it  arrives  safely  at  its  place,  it 
merely  wants  to  be  adjusted  on  its  basis.  As 
soon  as  that  should  be  accomplished  the 
carpenter,  according  to  the  contract,  was 
entitled  to  his  pay.  The  crowd  were  be 
ginning  to  shout  at  its  ascension,  when  a 
pulley  gave  way,  then  another,  and  in  an 
instant  the  steeple  fell  to  the  ground,  and 
became  a  shapeless  mass  of  ruins."' 

"  Oh  the  poor  carpenter  and  his  famiJy," 
exclaimed  Amy,  "  what  did  he  do  ?  " 

"  He  was  in  utter  despair  ;  he  sat  down  on 


MARRIED    LIFE.  293 

the  ground  and  exclaimed,  '  take  us  all  to  jail ; 
we  are  ruined ! '  His  children  cried  aloud, 
his  wife  tried  to  comfort  him,  but  he  cov 
ered  his  face  and  would  not  look  up.  I 
saw  some  of  the  leading  men  together,  and 
went  up  to  learn  what  they  were  talking  of. 
I  found  they  were  proposing  a  subscription. 
As  I  passed  through  the  crowd  I  heard  one 
say,  I  '11  give  him  the  timber ;  and  anoth 
er,  I  '11  haul  it ;  another,  I  '11  give  him  a 
week's  work,  and  in  less  than  ten  minutes 
the  poor  man's  loss  was  made  up  to  him. 
This  was  too  much  for  him ;  he  wept  even 
more  than  at  his  loss,  he  could  not  articulate 
his  thanks."* 

"  Surely,"  said  Edward  "  that  church  can 
never  be  the  scene  of  a  more  devout  and 
acceptable  service  to  the  beneficent  Being 
for  whose  worship  it  was  erected." 

Amy's  eyes  glistened  with  delight,  as  she 
said  "  It  was  indeed  a  beautiful  consecration." 

"  They  only  did  what  they  ought  to  do," 
said  Mrs.  Hawkins. 

After  much  pleasant  talk,  the  friends  retired 
for  the  night. 

The  next  morning,  at  breakfast,  when  they 
were  planning  the  pleasures  of  the  day,  "  I 

*  A  Fact. 


294  SKETCHES    OF 

speak  for  the  children  for  a  walk,"  said  Ed 
ward  Selmar,  "  I  wish  to  have  them  to  my 
self;  Willy  can  show  me  the  wonders  of 
the  place." 

"  That  I  can,"  said  Willy,  and  began  to 
tell  beforehand  of  all  there  was  to  see. 

"  I  speak  for  your  company,  Amy,  for  a 
walk  such  as  we  used  to  have  when  we  were 
girls,"  said  Fanny. 

"  Who  '11  speak  for  me  ?  "  said  Mr.  Roberts. 

"  If  you  will  not  come  too  soon,"  said 
Fanny,  "  you  may  meet  us  upon  the  bridge 
below  the  falls,  on  our  return ;  but  we  shall 
chat  and  lounge,  and  stroll  along  slowly. 
You  are  too  consequential  a  person  now  to 
pass  the  whole  morning  among  the  rocks 
and  trees ;  so  we  will  not  invite  you." 

"  I  do  'nt  believe  you  want  me,  Fanny," 
said  her  husband. 

"  I  do  n't  believe  I  do,"  said  his  wife 
sportively,  but  with  a  look  of  such  confiding 
affection  that  the  most  jealous  lover  could  not 
be  hurt.  "Amy  and  I  shall  have  a  long  talk 
about  everything,  and  among  other  things  of 
course  discuss  our  husbands  ;  and  rely  upon  it 
you  will  have  your  turn,  and  you — " 

"  Will  not  be  much  edified  with  your  re 
marks,"  interrupted  Mr.  Roberts.  "  So  fare- 


MARRIED    LIFE.  295 

well,  ladies ;  I  leave  my  character  to  your 
mercy  ;  three  hours  hence  I  will  walk  to  the 
old  bridge  to  meet  you." 

"  Follow  me,  Amy,"  said  Fanny,  "  and  I 
will  show  you  my  favorite  spot,  where  I  have 
passed  many  a  joyful  hour,  and  which  to  be 
perfect  only  wants  the  blessed  idea  of  your 
presence  to  be  added  to  its  other  charms. 
Often  have  I  brought  you  here  in  the  spirit, 
but  I  confess  I  do  enjoy  the  visible  appear 
ance  of  those  I  love  ;  and  it  is  a  precious 
pleasure  to  me  to  sit  by  you,  Amy,  and  have 
my  arm  around  your  waist  as  it  used  to  be 
when  we  were  school-mates.  Those  were 
happy  days  —  were  they  not  ?  " 

"  Not  so  happy  as  the  present,"  said  Amy. 

"  No  !  no !  indeed.  Then  I  dreamed  and 
talked  of  joy  ;  now  I  feel  it  too  deeply  to 
speak  of  it  to  any  one  that  I  do  not  love  as 
I  love  you,  Amy." 

"  So  you  have  told  me  in  your  letters  very 
often  ;  but  no  words  could  be  so  eloquent  as 
your  every  look,  Fanny.  It  makes  me  very 
happy  to  see  you,  and,  if  possible,  more  so, 
to  see  your  husband.  He  is  a  new  creature." 

"  It  does,  indeed,  seem  like  a  new  life  to 
both  of  us. —  But  here  is  the  spot,  and  this  is 
the  seat,  where  I  love  to  sit  in  silence,  or  talk 


296  SKETCHES    OP 

with  my  husband,  or  sometimes  sing  all 
alone,  for  hours  together." 

It  was  on  the  smooth,  pebbly  shore,  where 
they  seated  themselves  upon  an  old,  moss- 
grown  tree7  that  had  fallen  partly  into  the 
stream. 

"  See  this  fairy  bay,"  said  Fanny.  "  Its 
happy  waters  seem  to  have  stopped  here 
while  the  rest  of  the  stream  hurries  on — like 
loving  hearts,  that  turn  aside  from  the  great 
current,  to  reflect  in  their  glad  bosoms  the 
beauty  of  earth  and  the  peace  of  heaven." 

With  their  arms  interlocked,  the  friends 
contemplated,  in  silence,  the  lovely  scene 
around  them. 

"  The  wind  was  hushed, 
And  to  the  beach,  each  slowly  lifted  wave, 
Creeping  with  silver  curl,  just  kissed  the  shore, 
And  slept  in  silence." 

Directly  back  of  this  little,  sheltered  nook 
rose  a  tall,  rocky  bank,  shelving  over  it,  as  if 
to  protect  it  from  the  storms.  From  its 
crevices  dangled  the  bright,  gay  blossoms  of 
the  columbine,  heavy  with  the  morning  dew. 
On  the  top  grew  a  graceful  young  riemlock, 
waving  its  pliant  branches  and  small,  brown 
cones  with  every  breath  of  wind,  looking 
like  a  feather  in  the  crest  of  a  giant.  Oppo- 


MARRIED    LIFE.  297 

site,  arose  steep,  thickly-wooded  banks ;  the 
trees  just  putting  forth  their  tender  leaves 
and  green  tassels,  were  ringing  with  the 
song  of  birds  building  their  nests.  Far  up, 
they  had  a  glimpse  of  the  fall,  gleaming  like 
silver  in  the  early  sun,  while  its  unceasing 
sound  fell  in  softened  murmurs  upon  the 
ear.  Amy  looked  up  at  the  spring-flowers 
drooping  over  her  head,  and  remembered 

"  The  fair  creature  from  her  bosom  gone, 
With  life's  first  flowers  just  opening  in  its  hand, 
And  all  the  lovely  thoughts  and  dreams  unknown, 

Which  in  its  clear  eye  shone, 
Like  the  spring's  wakening." 

Amy  wept,  but  not  as  without  hope.  Never 
was  her  conviction  stronger,  her  faith  more 
real,  that  her  child  lived,  than  at  that  moment 
of  tender  remembrance. 

After  a  long  silence,  Fanny  said  to  her, 
"  You  see,  dear  Amy,  how  happy  we  are ; 
and  you  must  rejoice  to  think  that  you  were 
the  means  of  saving  us  from  misery." 

"No, no," said  Amy;  "no  one  can  do  such 
a  work  for  another.  I  helped  you,  perhaps  ; 
I  pointed  out  the  way,  at  the  time ;  but,  had 
you  not  been  determined  to  do  right,  my  help 
would  have  been  in  vain." 

"  I  do  believe,"  replied  Fanny,  "  that,  feut 


298  SKETCHES    OF 

for  the  decision  I  made  that  morning,  in 
consequence  of  your  advice  and  entreaty  to 
be  simple,  and  true,  and  open-hearted  to  my 
husband,  to  have  no  disguises  whatever  with 
him,  we  should  now  be  as  miserable  as  we 
are  happy.  It  was  a  long  while  before  we 
formed  those  habits  of  perfect,  transparent 
confidence  and  truth  which  now  are  no  longer 
an  effort.  We  had  both  to  put  aside  our 
peculiar  faults.  I  had  to  be  willing  to  confess 
I  was  wrong,  to  bear  to  be  blamed,  and 
to  see  myself,  often,  in  a  very  ugly  glass. 
He  had  to  conquer  his  pride,  to  subdue  his 
sensitiveness,  and  to  put  away  his  reserve. 
In  short,  we  have  both  felt  the  impor 
tance  and  duty  of  loving  excellence  bet 
ter  than  self;  and  now  we  are  growing 
more  and  more  in  love  with  each  other  every 
day.  All  we  want  to  make  us  perfectly 
happy  is,  to  have  you  and  Edward  with  us. 
Mrs.  Hawkins  is  one  of  my  best  friends.  I 
have  made  her  promise  never  to  wear  green, 
and  to  add  a  quarter  of  a  yard  to  the  length 
of  her  gown." 

Amy  and  Fanny  related  to  each  other  their 
various  experiences  for  the  last  three  years. 
During  that  time,  Amy's  father  had  died. 
One  of  his  last  requests  was^  that  he  might 


MARRIED    LIFE.  299 

be  laid  in  the  tomb  of  a  rich  though  distant 
relation  of  his  wife's,  where  she  had  been  in 
terred.  "  If,"  said  he,  "  I  had  not  lost  my  prop 
erty,  I  intended  to  have  had  a  tomb  of  my 
own  at  Mount  Auburn.  All  the  first  people 
are  buried  there.  One  does  not  wish,  even  in 
the  grave,  to  be  confounded  with  the  mass." 
Amy  did  not  herself  relate  to  Fanny  this 
proof  of  the  strength  of  her  father's  ruling 
passion  ;  but  the  sad  expression  that  came 
over  her  face,  when  she  spoke  of  his  death, 
showed  that  there  was  a  deeper  sorrow  con 
nected  with  the  memory  of  it  than  she  was 
willing  to  confess. 

The  three  hours  passed  rapidly  with  the 
friends,  as  they  strolled  along,  chatting  by 
the  way,  just  as  when  they  were  girls; 
with  this  difference,  that  what  was  then 
a  fancy  or  a  golden  dream,  was  real  now ; 
and  that  joys,  which  were  then  unthought 
of,  formed  the  ground-work  of  their  hopes. 

Before  they  came  to  the  old  bridge,  they 
met  Mr.  Roberts.  His  face  beamed  with 
pleasure,  at  the  sight  of  his  wife  with  the 
beloved  friend  of  her  childhood. 

"  Do  you  want  me  now,  Fanny? "  said  he, 
gaily. 

"  Yes,  we  do,"  said  she.  "  We  have  noth* 
ing  more  to  say  about  you." 


300  SKETCHES    OF 

Soon  the  merry  voices  of  the  children 
rang  through  the  woods  ;  they  bounded,  like 
fawns,  at  the  sight  of  their  mothers,  Sel- 
mar  running  after  them,  gay  and  light-heart 
ed  as  they. 

When  they  met  at  dinner,  all  were  full  of 
glowing  accounts  of  the  pleasures  of  the 
morning. 

"  I  love  uncle  Selmar,"  said  Willy  ;  "  he 
tells  so  many  funny  stories,  and  is  so  kind." 

"  You  have  not,  Amy,"  said  Fanny,  "  told 
me  anything  of  my  friend  Ruth.  How  is 
she  ?  and  where  is  she  ?  and  what  sort  of  a 
husband  does  Jerry  make  her  ?  " 

"  A  very  good  one,"  replied  Amy.  "  They 
live  in  a  small  house  in  the  neighborhood  of 
Boston.  I  went  to  see  her,  not  long  since, 
and  she  told  me  that  she  had  a  better  hus 
band  than  she  or  any  other  sinner  deserved." 

"  Is  she  still  as  fond  as  ever  of  old  proverbs  ? " 

"  Gluite.  I  had  not  been  in  the  house  ten 
minutes,  before  I  heard  her  say,  '  You  know, 
ma'am,  that  it 's  an  ill  wind  that  blows  no 
body  any  good.  The  poor  old  sexton  is 
dead,  and  Jerry  is  chosen  in  his  room ;  and 
what  he  gets  by  the  business  helps  us  on, 
though  it  is  not  much  to  speak  of.  But 
many  a  little  makes  a  mickle.'  I  asked  her 


MARRIED    LIFE.  301 

if  she  was  happy ;  and  her  eyes  sparkled  as 
she  answered,  '  Happy,  ma'am,  as  the  day  is 
long.  Jerry  is  one  of  that  sort  that  can  turn 
his  hand  to  anything  ;  nothing  shiftless  about 
him.  All  is  grist  that  comes  to  his  mill. 
There  is  no  kind  of  chore  but  what  he  can 
do  so  much  better  than  any  one  else,  that 
every  body  employs  him.  He  buries  the 
dead,  and  waits  upon  the  living ;  keeps  a 
singing-school,  cobbles  and  blacks  shoes.  I 
call  him  jack  at  all  trades,  and  good  at  none  ; 
but,  though  I  say  it  that  should  not  say  it, 
he  is  a  real  good  husband,  and  provides  well 
for  his  family.'  " 

When  the  time  arrived  for  the  Selmars  to 
return,  their  friends  urged  them  to  promise 
that,  at  some  future  day,  when  Selmar's  prop 
erty  would  allow  him  to  leave  business,  they 
would  come  and  join  them  in  the  country. 

"  This  would  be  a  great  indulgence,"  an 
swered  Selmar ;  "  but,  with  my  present  hab 
its,  and  our  views  of  duty,  I  doubt  whether 
it  would  be  so  good  for  us.  Nature  is  indeed 
beautiful,  as  you  see  it  here ;  these  hills,  this 
lovely  glen,  this  river,  this  wilderness  of 
flowers,  and  the  music  of  your  birds,  and, 
above  all,  your  dear  selves;  but  all  this, 
to  Amy  and  me,  would  be  luxurious  indul- 


I 

302  SKETCHES    OF 

gence.  The  human  soul,  with  all  its  heights 
and  depths,  its  rough,  and  deep,  and  discord 
ant  tones,  and  its  sweet,  immortal  music,  its 
deformities  and  its  deathless  beauties,  must 
be  the  field  in  which  we  labor.  There  we 
are  apparently  placed  by  our  great  Task-mas 
ter,  and  there  we  think  we  shall  find  our  hap 
piness.  I  have  an  ambition  which  many  will 
call  romantic,  but  which  glorious  evidences 
have  been  given  is  not  a  chimera.  It  is, 
to  prove  that  a  merchant,  yes,  a  money- 
making  merchant,  may  be  an  imitator  of 
Jesus,  as  truly  and  as  faithfully  as  another 
man,  in  spite  of  the  real  difficulties  and 
the  apprehended  dangers  that  beset  him  on 
every  side.  This  seems  to  me  to  be  my 
mission.  I  have  some  notion  that  the  travel 
ling  Samaritan,  who,  when  the  priest  and  the 
Levite  turned  aside,  stopped  to  bind  up  the 
wounds  of  him  who  had  fallen  among  thieves, 
was  a  merchant ;  and  Amy  and  I  have  re 
solved  to  devote  my  surplus  gains,  with  the 
help  of  God,  to  the  good  of  our  fellow-men. 
I  have  to-day,  Roberts,  been  in  your  village ; 
and  what  I  have  heard  there  has  proved  to 
me  that  your  happiness  here  has  arisen  from 
the  very  same  source.  All  had  some  story 
to  tell  me  of  your  kindness,  arid  of  the 


MARRIED    LIFE.  303 

efforts  you  make  to  do  them  good.  While 
your  words  invite  me  to  stay  here,  your 
example  bids  me  go  home,  and  imitate 
you  in  the  sphere  in  which  I  am  placed, 
only  hoping  that  I  may  be  as  successful  a 
laborer  in  the  great  vineyard." 

They  bade  each  other  a  tender  farewell. 
It  was  hard  to  part ;  but  their  visit  had  been 
most  happy,  and  they  promised  to  come  again 
next  year. 

Edward  returned  to  his  business  with  a 
new  zeal  for  the  accumulation  of  wealth,  that 
he  might  be  enabled  to  enjoy  the  luxury  of 
changing  tears  of  sorrow  to  tears  of  joy,  and 
of  helping  to  make  barren,  desert  minds  blos 
som  like  the  rose  —  to  kindle  in  the  dead  eye 
of  him  who  was  without  hope,  a  light  which 
should  never  be  extinguished.  All  of  his 
earnings  beyond  a  certain  sum,  which  he  set 
aside  for  the  support  and  real  good  of  his 
family,  he  solemnly  dedicated  to  works  of 
beneficence  ;  not  to  a  useless  and  enervating 
almsgiving,  but  to  intelligent,  thoughtful, 
consistent  methods  to  alleviate  the  sufferings 
of  the  poor,  by  enabling  them  to  raise  them 
selves  to  a  dignified  independence.  He  joined 
in  every  effort  for  the  diffusion  of  knowl 
edge  and  general  education ;  and,  above  all, 


304  SKETCHES    OF    MARRIED    LIFE. 

he  gave  his  mind,  his  time,  as  well  as  his 
money,  for  the  advancement  of  the  great 
cause  of  human  freedom  —  of  a  true  Christian 
brotherhood  throughout  the  world.  In  all 
these  duties  and  pleasures,  Amy  was  his  in 
timate  adviser  and  efficient  helpmate,  his 
equal  partner,  his  best  friend.  The  fulfil 
ment  of  this  plan  of  life  called  upon  them 
for  much  self-denial.  There  were  many 
beautiful,  many  desirable  things  they  relin 
quished  for  the  sake  of  the  higher  pleasure, 
which  they  had  chosen.  They  found  so 
much  peace  and  satisfaction  in  their  choice, 
that  it  was  apparent,  that,  with  the  good 
vicar  of  blessed  memory,  "  while  some  men 
gazed  with  admiration  at  the  colors  of  a  tulip, 
and  others  were  smitten  with  the  wing  of 
a  butterfly,  so  were  they,  by  nature,  admir 
ers  of  happy  human  faces." 


,1683.       F721S 

Hill  llll  mi  ii  linn  ii"  l!l|V!"j  "Q  ""o'-i  oVS 


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